


Spark in Hand (From the Wind We Hide)

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Series: Sunfall [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-typical Issues, CyberLife Got Worse, Gen, Grouchy Geezer Respects Local Toaster's Ideas, Quasi-Scientific Experiments Fic, Really running wild with canon here, Suicidal Thoughts, Sumo's the real star, please mind the notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: The year is 2038, three years after the infamous deviant rA9 led a violent uprising that ended with the wholesale destruction of and strict ban on anything remotely resembling artificial intelligence. CyberLife continues to supply convenient, efficient and obedient androids to the human population.Hank’s positive the ban's for the best. That is, until he’s called in to investigate the grisly murder of a CyberLife scientist and has to work with a startlingly clever android partner.





	1. From CyberLife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part I! This fic began as a thought experiment about all the horrendous nonsense CyberLife could get up to regarding androids in a post-rA9 world as well as the broader question about what, exactly, Kamski and his God complex hoped to accomplished. Liberties have also been taken on modifying a few things re: androids (like making their LEDs not as easy to remove, because where's the fun in perfect human-lookalikes??)
> 
>  **Please heed** that this fic deals with canon-typical alcoholism and suicidal thoughts as per Hank's character. There is also death, drug use, android-related body horror, involuntary android-mind fuckery, and implied bodily assault.
> 
> Part I is entirely gen. Part II will contain HankCon as well as a few other ships. If you aren't a fan of HankCon, that's chill - I still encourage you to give this part a chance! It can be read as a complete story. :)

“They’re being as cooperative as we could hope for. We’re still hitting some resistance, ‘course.”

“What, they worried if we poke around their closets too long, skeletons will fall out?”

“It’d be more suspicious if none showed up. That’d make me think we’re digging in the wrong yard. But, yep, that about sums it up -- they’re letting us investigate, but only so long as we stay in our lane.”

“It’s a murder scene. They aren’t _letting_ us do shit, Ben.”

“You know what I mean, Hank. Don’t get creative on this one.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know me. I always play nice.”

“Hah.”

As far as murders went, the death itself was grisly but standard. The victim was fifty-one-year-old Dr. Ethan Peterson, a long-time roboticist for CyberLife. The location was his very own lab on sublevel eleven. Approximate time of death had been an hour prior, which was how long it took for the call to come through and for dispatch to get the police on the scene. Cause of death? A dozen or so strikes to the stomach and face, until his skull caved in and ended his misery. His arms had the bruising of self defense, and there were a few splatters of blood on the lab’s center table, a cracked tablet and overturned stool near that. 

So, they were looking at someone who had been willing to fight, and hadn’t wanted to give up even after Ethan was on the ground. Someone who took Ethan’s murder personally, probably.

From Hank’s initial look around, his attacker had used something fist-sized and _solid_. The lab was full of instruments that fit the first half of the description, but most of them were glass and wouldn’t have withstood the pressure. In any case, no murder weapon had turned up yet. Forensics would have to tell him if all the blood was Peterson’s; in an ideal world, the attacker had used their fists, and there’d be some evidence to trace once they had more suspects. 

Hank dragged a hand down his face, blowing out an annoyed breath as he took the scene in one more time.

He dragged his eyes away from the scientist’s mashed-up face to cock an eyebrow at Ben.

“Alright. Be level with me. Why am _I_ here, investigating fucking CyberLife?”

“You and Reed were the only qualified ones with a light caseload.” Ben gave a one-shouldered shrug, and didn’t look apologetic in the least. Bastard. “Believe it or not, Fowler thought you’d be less likely to insult the technicians.”

“Y’know, I’m starting to wonder if Jeffrey even knows me any more.”

Ben chuckled and shook his head, clearly amused. Hank gave him a closed-lip, not-at-all-there smile.

The technicians. A flighty trio of recently graduated geeks, all armed with chic-thin glasses and the nervous look of people who wet their pants over a speeding ticket, never mind being questioned over their supervisor’s grisly homicide. Word was that they hadn’t been in the room at the time of the death, that they’d only been the unlucky lot to return from their coffee break to find the carnage, but Hank would need to make sure. There was also a colleague of Ethan’s who had been three doors down during the incident, but the guy had taken off before Hank arrived after giving his statement, wherein he claimed to have heard nothing. Hank made a mental note to come back and get a better feel for the guy.

Word was that the security cameras in the lab and across the whole floor hadn’t been recording that day due to regularly scheduled maintenance, too, which was beyond fishy. The cameras in the elevators hadn’t picked up anyone except the technicians leaving and returning from their break, too, and the guards at the gate hadn’t reported any odd activity. There had been the usual scientists and assistants and whoever-the-fuck-else coming and going for mid-afternoon duties, errands or snack runs.

He’d need to get somebody to look for tampering on both counts. _Regularly scheduled maintenance_ was too damn convenient. Although, maybe the attacker had known that, and was in fact another employee. The clean, low-key, in-and-out from the lab boosted that theory.

Alright, sure. The case was interesting, minus the part where it involved CyberLife. More interesting than the open-and-shut, hit-and-run cases Hank suspected Fowler intentionally and routinely assigned him to. 

In any case, Reed wouldn’t have been able to help himself from going hard on the bad cop routine, which would clam up the soft-bellied sort CyberLife employed quicker than anything. So, Fowler was probably right to assign Hank. 

Didn’t mean Hank had to like it. 

“Fuckin’ CyberLife,” he grumbled to himself, crossing his arms and fixing his eyes on the mess of machinery laid out on a surgical table. It looked like half a person, if a person was made out of plastic tubes and white casing. Hank didn’t get why it needed a face if it was purely for research, but then, what did he know? Scientists were a weird bunch. “How’s this shady-ass company still kicking, anyway? Thought they’d gone underground years ago, after the whole _your maid-bot’ll rip your face off in the night_ business.”

Ben shrugged again. Both shoulders, this time. His eyes wandered too, but not to the gutted android. He was looking at the door, which--his back being to it--Hank heard slide open with hardly a whisper.

“Good marketing, I’d say. Androids are pretty damn convenient. Got my own, you know, after the wife insisted. Anyway, they said they figured out the problem, and, hell, I believe ‘em. It’s been years, and we haven’t had a single case of android-born violence since.”

“You have one?”

“Everybody’s got one, Hank. They’re useful.”

Hank shook his head and tsked. 

Figures this would be the day his office booze stash ran dry. He could feel a headache creeping up the corners of his vision the longer he stood around.

“Excuse me?”

Eyes focused over Hank’s shoulder, Ben had a funny look on his face at the newcomer. The kind of look that said he didn’t want to deal with whoever it was, which meant Hank especially didn’t want to deal with them. Hank turned around, thinking he’d see a suit-and-tie PR man. A fall man, maybe, or the belated _manage-the-cops_ clean-up crew.

The suit-and-tie had a goofy face to match his fresh-out-of-the-nest face. He also, however, had a glowing blue band around his arm and another, tinier one at his temple. On his jacket was inscribed _RK800_ , with a string of nonsense numbers printed neat-as-you-please underneath.

At that point, Hank’s expression definitely matched Ben’s. 

“Hello,” said the android. It glanced between Hank and Ben, as if it were trying to find who it really wanted to talk to. That was something Hank especially hated about androids - they were _too life-like._ It was unnerving. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife to assist you in this case.”

Hank scoffed, incredulous, and reeled around to look at his actual point of help in this case.

“What in the hells is this, Ben?”

Ben looked caught-out, which did not bode well for Hank’s blood pressure. “Meant to warn you,” he hedged, “CyberLife’s terms for letting us sniff around their labs involved you being accompanied by one of their ‘bots. Apparently it’s a prototype, meant to, uh…”

“I specialize in investigative analysis. I am also equipped with the equivalent of a forensics lab, negating the need for samples to be removed from the site.”

“It’s a fucking _detective-bot._ CyberLife’s creation, investigating CyberLife’s dirty business. That’s--a goddamn clear conflict of interests, Ben, at the _least_. No way in hell am I working with this thing.”

It blinked at Hank, and then looked to Ben. 

Smart piece of plastic. It knew it wasn’t going to be finding an ally in Hank.

Christ, he needed a drink.

Ben had his hands up, palms out, and was quick to say, because of course he was, “Listen, Hank, I didn’t make the rules. It’s this, or fighting CyberLife’s lawyers throughout the next six months to so much as take a dust sample from this place.”

“Don’t they have some bullshit charge to hit ‘em with? Like, I don’t know-- _impeding investigation?_ ”

“Lieutenant Anderson,” the android interrupted. _Interrupted!_ “I am only here to assist you in the completion of the case. I believe you will find I can be of use.”

“Be reasonable,” Ben said, paused, and added, “or take it up with Fowler.”

“Oh, I’ll be taking it up with Fowler, alright,” Hank growled, shooting the android a look. “I don’t want it touching _shit_ until I do. This is still my crime scene.”

It blinked again. Then nodded.

“I will be sure to follow your lead, lieutenant. Your record is quite outstanding. I believe I have a lot to learn from you.”

Hank stared.

Then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at it in true _get a load of this guy_ fashion, turning his back on it to give Ben a sardonic smile. 

“It knows my record. Wonderful.”

Ben shrugged one final time, looking a little like a fish out of water. “I know, I know. Talk to Fowler, Hank.”

“I will,” he repeated, smile dropping to a scowl. _Unfortunately_ , he still had a few things to check at the scene - like those technicians, who thank God, were _human_ \- and he didn’t trust CyberLife to let them in so easy the next time. For all he knew, the scene had already been fucked with. Couldn’t trust shit with big companies like CyberLife, especially the longer time went on. 

When he looked back, the damn android was still standing there, its big, dumb eyes trained on him. Its little circle cycled blue, slow and steady. Was it buffering? Hank hoped so.

“I got a few more rounds to do,” he informed it. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”

“Of course, lieutenant.”

Shrugging his jacket higher on his shoulders, Hank decided to ignore it and do his job. 

After, a little past midnight, he didn’t go home or to the station. He went to Jimmy’s Bar, one of the last sane spaces in Detroit. Around three in the morning, he sent Fowler a call on his personal phone and left one hell of a voicemail. Hank did not remember the contents of his message, though he vaguely recalled that he’d felt vindicated about its tone, until the morning after at the station when Fowler called him in to chew him out about it.

“The thing _licked the blood,_ ” Hank had snarled back at one point. He’d thought he made a good point there. That was tampering with the scene! Besides, it was _disgusting._ “It’s just learning so it can replace us. You trying to put us out of work, Jeffrey?”

Fowler told him in no uncertain terms to get over himself and deal with it, because he was a right bastard, too. 

The conversation took ten minutes. 

When he left Fowler’s office with an _android partner_ officially assigned to his case as his new personal, human-shaped computer, the last thing he needed was the first thing he saw: the fucking android in question, sitting and looking as awkward as any of the technicians from the night before, _at Hank’s desk._

It smiled when Hank approached, its little blue light twirling in that steadying, not-buffering way it had.

Hank didn’t break its face. He ruffled its jacket, _maybe_ , but he didn’t break its ridiculous face, so he considered that a hell of a win.

\- - -

On April 4th, 2035, the snow had yet to melt from Detroit’s streets. The rivers remained frozen, though a single step from anyone more than fifty pounds sent spider-web cracks every which way. That didn’t stop a few thrill-seekers from racing RTVs and motorcycles across the icy waters, which led to more than a few bodies washing up, bloated and blue, during the summer.

The winters had been lightening up in the years prior, but 2035 was doomed to be different. It was cold -- the type of cold older folks recalled from their childhoods. It hadn’t snowed a lot, actually, until the week all hell broke loose. Apparently, to the surprise of absolutely no Midwesterner, the devil preferred his domain cold with a chance of frostbite.

The androids marched through Detroit the day after a surprise blizzard and its resulting white-out. They shattered store windows, starting with CyberLife shops. They pushed cars into rivers. They upturned garbage bins. They left whatever destruction they could manage. Worse yet, any android they passed joined them, which meant every cashier, every janitor, every pearl-wearing nanny-bot took to the streets. 

Casualties had been low, given the scale of the march and the androids’ fevered demands for _freedom_. Thirty-six national guard, eleven police, four civilians (two CyberLife regional managers, one overly attached owner, and one child at the wrong place and the wrong time) dead. Over a hundred wounded. 

The greater casualties came after the march, when President Warren announced her plan to round up the androids and proceed with systemic destruction via recycle centers. The androids had _flipped,_ with reports of android-based violence skyrocketing to the hundreds over night. Even those that hadn’t been involved in the march showed a sudden bloodlust for humanity. Big news spun it that the machines were infected with some sort of virus, which CyberLife--eventually, after the things were mostly destroyed --agreed with and worked hard to create safeguards against. Local conspiracy theories said they’d “awakened”, that humans had unintentionally stumbled onto artificial intelligence and the bloodshed was just what they deserved for endorsing what was essentially slavery. 

Hank, for one, didn’t give a shit what the reason was. All he knew was that one day everything had been business as usual, and then within a span of a week, his life and his city had been reduced to shambles. 

Cole had been six. He would’ve been nine by now if it hadn’t been for CyberLife’s colossal fuck-up with their _oh so convenient_ androids. 

And now here Hank was, handed a knife in the form of a grisly murder committed in the heart of CyberLife’s headquarters, and he couldn’t muster up the energy to drive it into the company’s gut and give it a twist.

He thought about it, obviously. He’d been on the force long enough to know how to make an investigation pure hell for anybody involved. 

But when he showed up to the station ‘round noon, his mind pleasantly fuzzy, and was told by the tin can they’d assigned him that he and it needed to report to CyberLife to question a possible lead, he just felt-- tired.

Tired and pissed, in more ways than one. 

He’d ignored its morning greeting, instead taking his seat and yanking open his bottom desk drawer to drop his completely conspicuous paper bag in, shoving it closed and ignoring the unhappy clinking of glass against glass. Then and only then did he grab his work-issued tablet and start tapping into the disturbingly sparse folder regarding Ethan Peterson’s murder. 

A new folder labeled _Connor_ was available for reviewing. He frowned at it, wracking his brain for who that could possibly be. The android had been called Connor, but that couldn’t be right.

He tapped into the folder. A good dozen files showed up, all meticulously labeled with time, place, subject matter, and relevant forensics code.

Suddenly, he remembered the android had called itself a mobile evidence machine. Moreover, he remembered it sticking a blood-covered finger into its mouth.

“S’ too early for this,” he muttered to himself.

In the corner of his eye, the android cocked its head, the fake skin between its eyebrows pinching. “Lieutenant? …I believe alcohol is against office regulations. You would need a waiver by the Captain for those bottles.”

“Fuckin’ fun at parties, aren’t you?” He heard himself and instantly hated it. He sounded like an old geezer, as if he were too old to make new friends. If it hadn’t been an android he was speaking to, he’d almost feel bad. 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a party.”

 _What the fuck?_ Looking up at the thing, he gave it his best scowl. “I’m stuck with you throughout this clusterfuck, so let’s get to it. I’m going to look these over, then I’ve got a call to make. If you could just… sit still and not touch anything, that’d be great.”

The thing frowned back at him, the pinch between its eyebrows deepening. It did not look like it was going to listen to Hank. In fact, it even took a step closer to him, as if to get a glance at his case notes. 

Fan-fuckin’-tastic.

“To the technicians?” It asked.

“To his colleague.” Hank corrected, his interest in this exchange already waning. “The good Dr. Andronikov. Or, as everybody tells me, _just Dr. Zlatko’s fine._ I booked an appointment with him later today.”

The android paused. If it’d been human, Hank would’ve said it sounded cautious. “Zlatko claimed not to have heard anything.”

“People’ll say all kinds of shit to get cops out of their face.” Interest was gone. Ire was rising. So much for Hank’s pleasant buzz.

“You think he lied.” It now sounded surprised, and a bit interested. Fan- _fuckin’_ -tastic, it had _opinions._ “Zlatko has always been very focused on his research, which had nothing to do with Peterson’s. He has no disciplinary record within the company. Ethan Peterson and he were known to have a good working relationship, and occasionally even participated in after hour socials together. There is no reason to think--”

“ _I think_ that I’ve been at this longer than you, and that you should get out of my hair and let me do my job.”

It went quiet, finally. It backed up a step. 

“I get the impression that you don’t like me, lieutenant,” it said. A _bit_ startled (not that he’d admit it), Hank guffawed. It pressed on. “No. You don’t like androids. You don’t like CyberLife. Why not?”

Hank looked up, and gave it an all-tooth smile. It blinked twice, its little circle cycling to yellow. It’d done that when Hank had shoved it up against the wall, too, and told it in no uncertain terms that they were _not_ going to be buddies. 

“None,” he said, enunciating every word slowly, “of your fucking business.”

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

Both he and the android’s heads turned to see a station android with a phone in-hand.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” 

Her tone said she wasn’t sorry about anything, but then, she sounded that blank and neutral about everything. Like a proper machine, Hank thought. She looked human from the left, but the second she spoke or moved, there was no doubting she was pure plastic. Four years ago, before the anti-virus update, and she’d been a closer imitation to the real thing. A few of the other officers had expressed disappointment when she no longer understood jokes or participated in small talk--she’d helped calm intakes and visitors, they’d said--but Hank didn’t see the problem. If they wanted that, they should’ve kept on a real person.

They called her Karen. She was one of three androids that returned to the station after the post-uprising purge. She probably wasn’t even the original Karen, Hank mused, but a look-alike replacement. Not that it mattered much, but people had a tendency to get attached to their gadgets, especially when they came with a face and name.

She continued, blank-faced as always. “You just received a call from CyberLife’s front desk. They’re saying Zlatko is free to see you in an hour and thirty minutes. They have a pass ready for you when you arrive. It will be your pass for the duration of the investigation. That is all.”

“Got it.” He gave her a nod of thanks, ‘cause that was just polite, and looked back to the tablet.

She left.

Connor looked after her, for once falling quiet. His little light was yellow, and his expression weird. Almost sad.

Looking at it, Hank felt something in his stomach twinge.

Leave it to CyberLife to keep their special androids horribly life-like. 

“Alright.” He loudly cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. Connor looked back to him, its light blue and its expression neutral as could be. “You heard her. Meet me in the car in ten.”

“Yes, lieutenant,” it replied, and turned, heading immediately for the garage.

It really walked like a person. When it passed Gavin and the detective stopped it with a hand on its shoulder, giving it an ugly, sneering look and some undoubtedly droll comment, it paused and tilted its head, as if confused about the detective’s disdain.

Gavin gave it a light shove. It fell back a step, then spent a few seconds fixing its rumpled jacket and cuffs, before finally heading again to the garage.

The station android never would’ve even blinked. _Had never_ even blinked, no matter the words thrown at her by the kooks that came into the lobby.

A shiver, involuntary, ran up Hank’s spine. 

Before he met the android in the car, he cracked open his Jim Beam and took a mouthful. He’d need it.

\- - -

“Ah, detective. They warned me you’d be visiting soon. Please, come in.”

Warning was typically something Hank didn’t like giving to witnesses or suspects, but in this case, he had a feeling he was going to be much more a beggar than a chooser. So, he gave Zlatko a closed-lip smile, a little nod, and stepped on into his lab.

The walls, like everywhere else, were a bluish off-white. The counters, unlike Ethan’s, were a mess, vials of unidentifiable liquids, instruments of all sizes--ranging from scalpels to what Hank was pretty sure was a _laser hacksaw_ , which automatically made Zlatko’s gig a bit cooler than his--and a number of smart glass tablets and reports. There was also a stack of old-fashioned papers scattered on a desk next to a reading lamp, a coffee-stained CyberLife brand mug and plate of half-eaten, probably stale cookies. 

The layout was the same as Ethan’s lab, however. Countertops all along the walls and a steel surgical table in the middle. It even came with its own opened-up android, though the one on the table had black and grey casing rather than white, and its head was opened up, huge tubes and bundled wires spilling out like metallic viscera. By its chest plate, it was a lady robot, which was _definitely_ an unnecessary detail for research purposes.

He shoved his vague discomfort away when he noticed the two people standing on the far side of the table, their simple grey gowns streaked with blue: a tall, broad-shouldered black man and a slight, black-haired white woman.

“Uh,” Hank started, looking at them in surprise. “Hey.” 

Right after he’d said that, he noticed the armband and glowing face-circle. That was… a little embarrassing, and he couldn’t help but cross his arms, scuffing his boot against the floor as he pointedly dragged his eyes back to Zlatko.

Nope. Didn’t make any stupid mistake. Nothing to see here. 

Too late, though. Zlatko looked over following his comment, and gave a small, forced-sounding chuckle.

“Ah! I’d forgotten. Pardon my manners. Kara, Luther, clean up this mess,” with a wave of the hand to the blackened android on the table, “and wait for me in the hall.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Store it in the usual place. I’ll finish with it after this grisly matter with our friend here is resolved.”

“Yes, Master.”

The two moved like Connor, completely realistic. They were efficient, too, as they grabbed a sheet previously buried under a pile of tablets and set to carefully bundling the android up. They were particularly delicate with the wires sticking out of its head, tucking the ends under the machine’s shoulders.

“Be careful with the wires,” Zlatko cautioned absently, though he himself had his back to both as he moved to his desk, “The solution I used seemed to have caused some rust in the plugs. Wouldn’t do to have them fall off. I’ve a ways to go with the Lucy project.”

The two didn’t reply. They kept their eyes on their task, and, before Hank knew it, they were done, the two of them hauling off the broken android like a corpse in a rug. 

On the back of their necks were two glossy black boxes. That wasn’t standard, Hank thought--but then, what did he know? Maybe it was for lab assistant bots. He wasn’t an expert.

Connor, who had followed him into the lab, backed up to let them pass. Like with Karen, its eyes followed them a touch too long; unlike with Karen, its expression remained perfectly blank. 

Frankly, it creeped Hank out more than the look it’d given Karen, so he made a point to turn his back and stop looking.

The door shut with that quiet whisper only CyberLife could afford to maintain. 

Hank directed his attention to Zlatko. “Androids working on androids?”

The man gave him a small, tight smile. “It’s so hard to find good living help these days.” 

Thinking about his impromptu partner, he snorted. “You’re telling me.” 

Zlatko’s eyebrows went up. “The RK800 isn’t to your liking? The RK series is absolutely fascinating. Very advanced. Highly secretive, though, you know--far above my clearance.”

Hank really didn’t care about Connor’s price tag or techno-specs. “That right?”

“Oh, yes. There’s only a handful in existence. Each have Kamski’s personal touch somewhere in their code. I’d love for the chance to open one up and take a look.”

 _O-_ kay. Yep, that conversation was over. 

Footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor making its way around the lab. It’d explained--unprompted--on the drive over that it needed time to scan a scene, and that whatever it’d scanned would upload into the folder on Hank’s computer. 

Hank almost told it to knock it off since this wasn’t a crime scene, but when Zlatko looked at Connor, he got a greedy, hungry look in his eyes that Hank didn’t like one bit. Men murdered other men’s spouses when they got a look like that.

 _Besides_ , he reasoned, _least Connor’s out of the way._ The android had already proven it didn’t like listening to Hank, anyway, which was also distinctly un-android-like ( _probably_ ).

Hank cleared his throat pointedly. Zlatko slowly dragged his eyes away from Connor, looking a touch irate. Hank decided he didn’t care. 

He asked him about his job. 

Hardware modifications, he said. CyberLife brought him on to innovate.

He asked him about Ethan Peterson’s job.

Software modifications, he said. CyberLife brought him on to improvise.

They both had creative vision that CyberLife was smart enough to realize, he continued. Their research was very experimental. It was a pity to lose Ethan, because few would be able to see androids’ potential like he could. He had recently invested a considerable amount of time into minimizing the memory storage necessary for androids without jeopardizing their job performance.

“And he’d just gotten clearance to work on the RK200 model,” Zlatko said, sounding both wistful and not a little jealous. “He wasn’t supposed to tell me, of course, but we had a good relationship. You could say we were thick as thieves. He told me a lot he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Did he have anyone who’d want to hurt him? Sabotage him, maybe?”

“Mm, a few. Professional envy, you know. But nothing to _that_ degree. He wasn’t-- \I mean, he kept to himself. Just like I keep to myself. We enjoy our research more than other people.”

“Uh-huh. I’d take a list of names and points of contact all the same, if it’s alright with you.”

“Of course, of course. Anything to help.” Zlatko gave another tight smile, blue-stained fingers tapping nervously on his desk top. “I’ll send them in an email. Is that all?”

He didn’t like cops, Hank realized. Either that, or he was hiding something. 

Well. Hell, he knew how to play that game.

“Almost, doc. You were here that night, weren’t you?”

“That night he was murdered? Yes.”

“You didn’t hear a thing?”

“No.” 

“Nothing at all?” Hank pressed, stepping closer. “He was right down the hall.”

“Nothing.” Zlatko shook his head, giving a tiny shrug. “Not a word. Had no idea until the place was crawling with cops.”

“But he had just gotten clearance to look at that fancy model. Probably, you knew he had it in the room with him. You weren’t curious?”

Zlatko’s mouth tugged down into a frown. “I don’t like what you’re implying. I had my hands full with my own experiments.”

“Did you tell anyone else about the RK-whatever?”

Zlatko’s frown deepened. “RK200.”

“Sure.”

“No. I didn’t tell anyone. Anyway--”

He stopped.

To his side, just out of Zlatko’s reach (but not eyesight--the guy had backed himself into a corner, all the better to watch them), Connor stopped, too. It had that damnably curious look on its face.

Ignoring Connor, Hank motioned him to continue. “Anyway?”

“No, no,” he said, shoving his fidgeting fingers under his armpits. Defensive. “Nothing. _Anyway_ , I really must get back to my work.”

“Before we leave, may I take a record of your phone history, Dr. Zlatko? Your work phone is fine.”

The man started at Connor’s voice, glancing sharply back at it with a scowl, and then over to Hank, as if beseeching help.

Hank, a look of _why the hell not_ on his face, nodded.

“Don’t you need a warrant?” Zlatko protested first, his voice terse.

“Nah,” Hank told him, “for anything that’s CyberLife property, Connor’s the warrant. Your employer’s given us free reign to look into this however we like, so long as it’s the one doing it.”

“I apologize, Dr. Zlatko,” Connor said, not sounding apologetic at all. Hank fought down a smile at the disgruntled look on Zlatko’s face. “If I may, your phone?”

Grumbling about invasive and demanding androids, he dug out his phone and handed it to Connor.

The android’s skin melted back to show white casing, which was both weird and, maybe, a little cool. Not three seconds later, Connor thanked Zlatko for his cooperation and handed the phone back. It then looked up to Hank and gave a nod that Hank couldn’t misinterpret. 

Seems like they’d just found their lead.

“I think we’re done for now. Thanks, doc.”

Zlatko shoved his phone back into his pocket, his bushy brows furrowed deep. He bid them a tense good-bye.

At the doorway, he stopped Hank with a, “Detective?”

Hank paused, looking back with some reluctance. Connor continued past without stopping. 

“Yeah?”

“A CyberLife android investigating a CyberLife murder… You’d need to be pretty naive to think they’d set themselves up for failure. I think you’re smart enough to know that.” Zlatko walked forward until he was within arm’s length of Hank, leaning forward and dropping his voice as he did so. “If you’d want, I could look into the RK800 and find out who exactly it’s reporting to. Just drop it off at my place for a night. It wouldn’t cost you a dime.”

The offer was--only a _little_ tempting.

Hell if it wouldn’t get him in some ball-busting trouble if he was caught out, though. And he definitely didn’t trust the doctor farther than he could throw him. Maybe not even that far.

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

Connor stood by the female android (Kara, wasn’t it?). They stood pretty close. Zlatko’s androids kept their eyes forward, their faces eerily blank. Connor’s, by contrast, had a mix of curiosity and--what the fuck? Caution? Wariness? Troubled, definitely.

Was he listening in? Did he know what Zlatko got up to? Or was that just some programmed emotion to get Hank to move faster?

Fuckin’ A. It didn’t matter. This talk was closed.

“Yeah, I think we’re good, doc.” Hank gave Zlatko one final glance, before shrugging his coat higher on his shoulders again and walking away. “We’ll be in touch only if we got to be.”

“If you’re sure! I don’t think you understand what you have with you, detective.”

Continuing to the exit, Hank ignored him. The guy was way too into his work.

Behind him, Connor immediately fell into step. Behind Connor, the two androids retreated back into the cluttered lab.

\- - -

Once inside the elevator, Connor said, “Peterson told him much more than he was supposed to.”

Hank _hmm_ ed. “Typical. Nobody can keep their trap shut when they’ve got something shiny to talk about. So? What’d you learn?”

“The RK200 was in his lab at the time, but he wasn’t alone. There were at least three other models present as well. One of them may have been activated and recorded what happened.”

“Sounds like the RK200’s the one we want, if you androids record everything.”

“Access to the RK200 is heavily restricted. I can submit a request, but… It’s unlikely to be granted. We could also file for a warrant, but then we would need to wait longer than would be ideal.”

Hank scratched at his beard. Would probably be best to do both, if he felt like being an overachiever.

Surprise surprise, he really didn’t. “These other androids are easier to get to?”

“Yes. They are registered to lot forty-three, which we will be allowed access to in approximately twenty hours.” A pause. “I have already submitted a request for the appropriate pass.”

Presumptuous, but not awfully so. Hank slid his eyes to Connor, curious despite himself. 

“Is that besides the android on the table?”

“Yes. That android had been deactivated at the time of the murder. It had nothing to offer.”

“So if you find one of these other ones were active, you’ll just, what? Scan their memory?”

Connor avoided his eyes. It had a hand in its jacket pocket; from the shifting, Hank could tell it was fidgeting with something. An obvious nervous tic. 

Funny. Humanity came through in the details, Hank supposed. He’d been happier when CyberLife had cut that shit out of its androids.

“If necessary. Perhaps they’ll simply tell me. If not, and if they prove reticent to memory probing, I am equipped with interrogation programs.”

“Huh.” The elevator pinged to the main floor, the doors sliding open to its empty space, the massive statue in the middle towering above them even from within the cart. Hank left the elevator and headed for the lobby, Connor a step behind. “Alright. Why not? Might as well follow whatever lead we’ve got. Will say, memory probing sounds pretty crazy.”

Not acknowledging his last comment, Connor nodded, apparently satisfied.

“That also provides enough time for you to update your reports.”

“I _guess._ ”

“Human memory degrades rapidly, especially regarding specifics. While I was recording the exchange, I don’t know your inner thoughts, which may prove useful at a later time. It is best to record what you learned as soon as possible.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job again?”

Connor was the picture of innocence. “Absolutely not, lieutenant. As you mentioned, you have been doing this work far longer than me.”

Hank eye-balled it, suspecting he was being mocked but unsure how he would call Connor out on it without sounding like a crazy person. Androids didn’t mock people. 

“If anything, I have much to learn from you,” Connor continued blithely.

“Aw, give it a rest.” Hank scoffed. “You made your point. I’m getting lunch first, just so you know. That’s what good detectives do after a long morning.”

After, _maybe_ he’d stop by the station and update his paperwork. Since they had twenty-some hours to kill, Hank headed for his car while doing the mental math for how to best split the time between a visit to his preferred food cart--a burger sounded fucking _delicious_ \--,the station, Jimmy’s, and home. One of the last two might need cutting.

Correction: _Hank_ headed for his car, and Connor followed, until it was forced to stop because Hank stopped, because, “Now wait just a fucking minute. Quit following me like some… clingy, plastic poodle.”

Connor blinked up at him. 

They stood at the lobby’s far end, right before the great glass doors. 

Connor said, slowly, “I am meant to accompany and assist you?”

By the look on its face, it probably wasn’t supposed to be a question.

Hank didn’t care. “Your part’s done for today, pal. Aside from some follow-up calls to those witnesses, I’m not poking around CyberLife’s business until that lot opens up. I’ve got other cases to work on.” 

Connor did not budge. It simply stared at Hank. 

The set to its jaw was undoubtedly jackass-level stubborn. 

Hank blew a breath out of his nose, irritation rising. “You can stay here, can’t you? This’s your home base. Go talk with your, I don’t know, science buddies. Don’t you have a pod to hop into and recharge your battery?”

“If you’re asking whether I have a place for stasis, I currently do not. I am assigned to accompany you. My battery, as you put it, is sufficiently charged for the next decade, though it is capable of lasting well into the next century if I conserve energy.”

“Ooh, no way in hell are you following me everywhere. If that was even a--a fucking requirement of this whackass arrangement, where were you last night, huh?”

“I was waiting for you at the station. Captain Fowler led me to believe you would be in eventually.” Connor paused. Eyebrows climbed, and Hank was treated to a pointed look. “He was right. You were in. Eventually.”

The thing was ribbing him. It _had_ to be.

Voice dripping with sarcasm, smirk on his face, Hank drawled, “So, what? You’re going to follow me home this time?”

“I was hoping to, yes. It seems most efficient given your erratic schedule.”

Hank dropped the smirk. “No.”

“Lieutenant--”

“Stay _here,_ ” he growled. “I’ll see you in twenty hours.”

“Lieutenant, I insist--”

“Fuck off.” He spun on a heel, a little pissed the doors were automatic and he couldn’t shove into something right then. Outside, rain fell in a thin drizzle. It fit his mood. “Don’t follow me.”

By the footsteps behind him, the android was following anyway.

Fucking thing never _listened._ So much for the ‘efficient and obedient’ tagline CyberLife pushed in its stupid ads.

“At least give me a ride back to the station.”

Hank didn’t reply, and kept going to where his car was parked. There, finally, he could jerk a door open and slam it closed after him, releasing a bit of his frustration. The car interior smelled like wet dog and dried vomit. It fit his mood, but it didn’t make it any better.

By the time he had his key in and the ignition on, he spotted Connor standing at the passenger side, arms straight at its sides, its eyes ridiculously beseeching. The piece of hair that wouldn’t stay up clung, damp, to its forehead. Its jacket darkened, the glowing triangle on its left breast stark. 

They really went hard into programming shitty expressions when given the chance, thought Hank. That shit wasn’t fair.

He was a detective. He’d seen far sorrier looks by far more convincing parties.

“Let me in?” Connor asked, its voice muffled through the glass. “Please, lieutenant. I can’t stay here.”

Hank hesitated a few seconds longer, just to give himself the illusion of choice. 

For some stupid reason, Zlatko’s hungry look at Connor’s back flashed through his mind.

Finally, he snarled, angry at Connor and the doctor and himself most of all. He tore his eyes away, waving his hand in a defeated _fine, fucker, come in_ gesture. 

Connor got in. It did not slam the door. It did apologize for dripping water on the upholstery. 

It then didn’t say a single thing more, instead choosing to stare out the side window.

Hank didn’t look over.

It wasn’t the worst drive of his life. It was painfully bad all the same.

\- - -

In the end, Connor stayed at the station overnight while Hank did his best to cut out going home in favor of Jimmy’s.

Unfortunately, Jimmy’s had a closing time. When it came, Hank didn’t have the foggiest. He learned about it only because he woke to Connor pounding on the outside of his car door, the early morning light stabbing knives into his eyes once he cracked them open. The world was woozy, a swirl of colors. His thoughts came slowly, his tongue like cotton in his mouth and his insides feeling fit to burst out his skin. He was also ridiculously, absurdly, disgustingly _warm._

Apparently he hadn’t even made it back into his house, though he’d managed to get the car onto the lawn.

“Shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ android! Stop being a nuisance! Stop following me! Fuckin’ plastic creep!” 

He shouted all that and more at Connor. Maybe. He kind of remembered shouting it at Connor.

He also kind of remembered getting out of (that is, falling out of) the car in order to throw some punches at the damn robot and get him to stop being so fucking obnoxious with the pounding on the glass. He vaguely recalled Connor hoisting his arm over his shoulder and hauling him into the house. He had no idea how Connor got his keys, but it was just as likely that he hadn’t locked the front door in the past week. 

He had the stray memory of telling Sumo to attack, and the dog being absolutely useless. Pup was too good for his own good.

He _definitely_ remembered being shoved in the shower, and Connor looking at him with bemusement across the bathroom while he flailed about under a startlingly, terrifyingly cold spray. 

“You’re going to make us late to our appointment with lot forty-three, lieutenant,” he chided.

“Fuck you,” he shot back through a mouthful of accidentally swallowed water. “What appointment? They’re just--they’re just… not humans. Waitin’ on us. Do androids even have a sense of time? Aren’t you fucks beyond time, or some shit? All your fancy… gizmos...”

“We are certainly not beyond time.” The corner of Connor’s mouth quirked up, bemusement shifting to amusement. “Though the benefits would outweigh the negatives. I should fetch you new clothes.”

“Across the hall,” Hank allowed, flapping his hand toward his bedroom. “Ugh. I’m going to be sick.”

“Will you be alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just need to…”

Toilet. Definitely needed the toilet.

Connor reached out to help him over, but he shrugged him off. He could get to his own fucking toilet, thank you very much.

_Ugh._

He was definitely sick. He was being sick. He was gross, and feeling gross, and the only upside was being sick made him feel slightly better, and also that he was still too drunk to taste more than the acidic bite to his bile.

“Here are your clothes.”

The offer came sooner than Hank thought possible. He squinted at Connor and the blue-and-white collared shirt he was placing on the sink edge. “You sure you’re not beyond time? How’re you moving so fast?”

“If one of us is experiencing a place beyond time, lieutenant, I believe it’s currently you.”

“That’s stupid,” Hank said, at the exact moment he realized he was being pretty stupid. He went back to clutching the toilet bowl’s edges. The lid slid a little under his grip, one of its bolts loose. “How’d you… How’d you get here, anyway?”

“I waited for you at the station.”

“Fuckin’ long time to wait.”

“You were later than you had been previously, even by your coworkers’ estimates. I grew concerned, so I went to your home address to find you.”

“Concerned, huh?” _That_ was stupid. “Androids can be concerned? Thought they stopped giving you emotional shit like that.”

Connor ignored him then, which he thought was quite rude. As he was used to being the rude one in the equation--not that they’d had much of a equation, they barely knew each other--, that thought struck him as fairly funny. 

He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“I’ll let you get cleaned up,” Connor said. “Be careful not to drown in the toilet, lieutenant. I’ve read that can happen.”

That was a _joke._ Maybe?

Hank watched through his water-and-otherwise-matted bangs as he set a cup full of water next to his folded clothes, patted the top of said clothes once, and then excused himself from the bathroom. He even had the grace to shut the door behind him and give Hank a little privacy. 

Before he could fathom thinking about the weird little scene he’d witnessed, the toilet again demanded his attention.

\- - -

It turned out Hank might’ve been beyond time itself, because he had no idea how long he took to get dressed and out of that bathroom. Not too long, probably. It wasn’t his first post-binge rodeo.

When he left the bathroom, he found Connor giving Sumo the ear-rub of his life. The dog was laid flat, tongue out, blissed out of his mind. When he saw Hank, his tail wagged four times, but then even that seemed like too much energy for him to keep up.

Connor had a half-smile on his face, his circle a steady, bright blue. The expression was painfully sincere.

An android being sincere was a thought too heavy to unpack this early into the day. Hank happily shoved it away and refocused on what was important.

“Sumo, you dirty traitor.”

The dog whuffed at his name, tail wagging for two more beats.

At the words, Connor immediately stopped showering Sumo with attention. Instead, he withdrew and stood, the movement fast as a lightning strike.

“Whoa, geeze, don’t let me interrupt the party. Keep moving that fast, and I’m going to get whiplash from just watching you.”

An awkward expression passed across Connor’s face, as if he weren’t sure how to respond to that. After a moment--barely any time, but Hank was starting to figure out that for Connor, any hesitation was a huge hesitation-he straightened the hem of his jacket, brushed off some dog hair, and stepped away from Sumo (who was looking at his new best friend with the same puppy eyes that always forced Hank to give him a bite of his chinese take-out). 

“You’re ready. Good. We can be on our way.”

Hank thought about not doing that, and instead chewing him out for busting into his house when he wasn’t invited. 

“I’ve plotted a course that allows time for you to order lunch without much of a detour at all.” Connor folded his hands in front of him, bright eyes on Hank. “It isn’t Chicken Feed, where you stopped yesterday, but it has comparable ratings and food.”

The scolding got caught up in his throat and made a knot. 

He managed to swallow it. “You’re not my fucking nanny, you know. I can pick out my own damn lunch.”

“I know, but it seemed easier if I did it.”

\- - -

It was, of course.

This was how they got you, Hank thought while they were sitting at a local joint’s drive-thru. The convenience. The efficiency. An imitation of life, but better. 

_Thank God he wasn’t obedient_ , came the stray thought. _Wouldn’t that be awful?_

Memory, then, clear as fuckin’ day: other androids that weren’t obedient. Other androids making their own decisions. A march on Detroit, and the fall-out of a few thousand machines deciding they didn’t want to die. In consequence, deciding some humans _did_ have to die.

Cole.

Barely a month out from his birthday.

“Lieutenant?”

The android. The fucking android, sitting in his passenger seat, calculating his route with his fucking brain-GPS.

Hank ignored him.

“Are you alright, lieutenant? Your heart rate has accelerated.”

A muscle popped on his neck as he clenched his jaw, gnashed his teeth. 

Concern. Fucking android was definitely showing concern.

They weren’t supposed to be doing that after the uprising crisis. What was CyberLife cooking up? It was none of his business. It was probably _just_ business. But it was his business, it _was--_

 _Nope_ , Hank reminded himself, sobering up faster with his eyes forward and grip tight on the car wheel than any time spent in a bathroom, _obedience would be just fine._

\- - -

“What’s with the coin?”

“It’s part of a calibration protocol to refine my fine motor skills.”

“It’s fucking distracting, is what it is.”

“Sir? Hank Anderson?”

The detective that had been the talk of the break room for the last few days jerked his head up at her approach. Given how tight he crossed his arms across his chest and the purple bags under his eyes, not to mention the unkempt state of his beard, Jane had a feeling he wasn’t going to appreciate any tomfoolery, the least of which was small talk. 

Well, that was just fine. Jane hadn’t become a security guard because it was small talk central.

She’d become a security guard because she’d heard it was an easy, well-paying gig with a lot of free time to kick back and take a smoke. Up until the scientist’s murder and the police-and-media storm that followed, it’d been pretty true.

“I’m Jane Jacoby. You’ve been cleared for a visit to lot forty-three. I’ll be escorting you as well as your android. It’s nothing personal, it’s just protocol. This way, please.”

“Right. Thanks.”

The detective shot a dirty look at his android. The android looked back, both eyebrows raised, and stuffed the highly contested coin into its pocket. 

Jane led them through the scanners, keeping her gun up but, well, casually. It’d be a huge shock if a _detective_ gave her trouble. That--and her drawing the metaphorical short straw--was probably why she was the only one on escort duty. 

“Swear this place gets more up its own ass every time I visit,” she heard the detective comment as they rounded the Tower’s central statue.

She thought he was talking to her, but then the android replied, “The last renovation affected bathroom interiors only, lieutenant. That was two years ago.”

“Didn’t mean literally. It’s a vibe thing.” A scoff. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Personally, though it wasn’t any of her business, Jane wasn’t sure about that. Androids were neat, she was a fan even with the little hiccup three years prior (you didn’t get this job if you weren’t), but CyberLife androids were on another level. Especially the Kamski ones. And, even if she didn’t have eyes and knew how to read, _everyone_ knew the detective had an RK model. 

If Jane were more a talker, she’d ask how the thing was doing in the real world--far as she knew, it was the first time one had been allowed to walk out the front doors and not immediately into some stuffy billionaire’s palace.

Silence, aside from their boots and shoes on the pristine floor.

The detective broke it with a semi-curious, “What were they doing with the bathrooms? Or is that classified?”

“Showers,” the android supplied, “and lockers. For those whose work requires them to stay overnight.”

Nasty showers, Jane mentally added. Didn’t matter how clean they kept ‘em or how long androids scrubbed ‘em down, they were always liable to give a barefoot person foot-fungus. Or so Bobby said, whose nasty feet could’ve used a dose of fungus to kick his ass to the doctor and finally get them checked out. 

But, wait. The android was lying. There’d been renovations to sublevel forty-one to forty-nine. Mostly for storage purposes, but also manufacturing. Those had been in the last year. It’d been right after New Year bonuses, Jane remembered, ‘cause she’d gotten one but Trish hadn’t, and then Trish was stuck on the surface grounds while Jane was scheduled underground.

Huh. Maybe the detective didn’t have clearance for that.

They made it to the elevators. Jane pushed the call button.

“Station has a shower room, too. Place is a welcoming home to mold and fungus and nothing else.” 

That just made sense, Jane thought. Some of the jocks she’d run with in school had become police officers, and they’d always had nasty feet, too.

The elevator arrived. The detective stepped in and finally stopped craning his neck all over the place as if he hadn’t been in the lobby three times prior.

Once they were in and sublevel twenty-one was hit, he turned to the android, squinted his eyes, and asked, “Do you need to shower?”

“I have bi-weekly routine maintenance. It doesn’t involve a shower.”

“Is that biweekly as in twice a week, or--”

“Every other.”

“Huh.” A pause. “Guess you don’t need to launder your clothes much either, what with not sweating. I’m a little jealous. Laundry’s a pain.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve got some other android to do your laundry? _Lucky_ bastard.”

The android glanced to the detective, a miniscule tilt to its head and a bemused expression on its face. As if it couldn’t figure out what the detective wanted it to do with that opinion.

Jane was glad for the standard-issue face-covering helmet, so they couldn’t see her giving them the side-eye. She wasn’t a chatty person, no sir, but it was good for guards to stay connected, just in case.

She made a mental note to tell Bobby about how chummy the detective had gotten with the RK model. 

The elevator dinged. She motioned them out. They went out, the detective taking the lead.

The twenty-first sublevel held lots twenty-five to fifty. Each lot held three androids, with the androids laying on pull-out slabs like at a morgue. The lots were purely storage, the floors polished blue tile and the temperature kept on the lower end of uncomfortably cold. Really, Jane wasn’t a huge fan: the whole level had the vibe of a creepy storage facility, made all the worse because you were pulling human-looking things out of compartments in the walls. 

But that was the nature of the job, so she didn’t complain. Anyway, forty-three was smack dab in the middle, so they had a bit of walking to do. 

As they walked, industrial-bright lights clicked on overhead. A few dollies were propped up here and there, which meant scientists had been in and out earlier in the day. They weren’t supposed to leave them in the halls, but everybody did.

“Christ, this place gives me the heeby-jeebies,” the detective muttered. 

The Tower seemed to give the detective a lot of vibes. It was a little amusing. Reminded Jane of the first time she’d been hired.

Neither guard nor android responded.

Unfortunately, aside from that, the chatter ended once they left the elevator.

The floor and walls were such that every little sound echoed. Luckily, they heard nothing but the sound of their own footsteps as they headed for lot forty-three. 

Jane motioned the two to stand back as she tapped in the keycode and pressed her thumb to the fingerprint scanner. Lot forty-three’s protective metal plate popped open, sliding down into a crevice in the floor. Within, three shelves labeled with the android model and serial numbers were stacked atop one another. Rectangle handles cut into the shelves’ centers, complete with a little pull-latch, were ready to be opened.

When she’d assured nothing had been tampered with (protocol), she stepped back and gave the detective a nod. 

“Go ahead. They’re all yours for thirty minutes. I’m required to warn you that I will stop if you if I suspect you are attempting to damage, steal or otherwise tamper with them.”

“This is going to be more his show than mine.” He didn’t sound too pleased about that, but he didn’t sound exactly angry, either. Jane didn’t react (just to remind him she wasn’t his friend). After a second, he waved a hand at the android, clearing his throat as he did so. “Well… Okay. We’re here. Do your thing.”

“Thank you.”

The android stepped forward, rolling up one of its jacket’s cuffs as it did so. It went for the middle drawer, the one with a PL600, activated its latch, and pulled it open.

The machine inside wore the grey gown that meant it had an active role in somebody’s research, though its skin function was deactivated as per storing regulation. The drawer it laid on had a layer of insulating grey foam that had conformed exactly to its body. Inside the shelf, the same type of foam could be seen, along with the dim blue glow of a charging-and-monitoring module. 

“I’m going to wake it up,” the android informed its human audience. “And ask it a few questions.”

“Sure,” the detective replied, glancing at Jane.

She thought she’d made her role pretty clear, so she didn’t say anything. She did readjust her grip on her gun, but that was because her fingers were getting a little numb from staying still so long.

It reached out and touched the PL600’s wrist. 

Caucasian skin flowed over white casing, blonde hair materializing before their very eyes in a short, classic cut. Blue eyes blinked open, and drifted to the RK800. 

Instantly, it sat bolt-upright, its expression twisted up. It looked panicked. Its LED went red.

Jane readjusted her grip on the gun, but this time, it wasn’t because her fingers kind of tingled. Her gut told her something was wrong with this thing, and she’d always listened to her gut.

A few androids reacted poorly to being reactivated, particularly if they participated in rough studies. They’d had an incident of an AX400 assaulting a scientist when he’d reactivated a YK500, which had just been a mess. Luckily, after they’d put it down with a few shots, it’d remained salvageable, so the accounting department hadn’t been too pissed. 

Anyway, that had been why they’d started installing black boxes on problem androids, and why armed escorts had become mandatory for fetching models from storage. 

Glitches in the system were inevitable given how advanced CyberLife kept its test models. Legally, Jane was pretty sure most of the androids in the storage lots toed the line of _artificial intelligence_ ; realistically, that just meant they needed to be more cautious. 

Hey, it kept her employed. It was just too bad only the technical staff got control of the black boxes, which could freeze the things up at the press of a button. If accounting was really worried about incidents going south for their repair or replenish budget, they could’ve provided controls to the guards, too.

“Hello,” the detective’s android quickly soothed, hands withdrawn and put up, palms out, “five-oh-one seven-forty-three nine-twenty-three. You are in CyberLife, lot forty-three. I have woken you from stasis to ask you questions about Dr. Ethan Peterson.”

The android’s breath came too fast, its eyes flitting rapidly between the three of them. Stress levels must’ve been high. 

Jane clicked the safety off her rifle, just in case.

The sound made the android flinch, and the detective go, “Oi. None of that. Everything’s fine. Isn’t it? -- Connor? Back me up here.”

“Just protocol, sir,” she assured him.

The RK800 hadn’t taken its eyes off the blonde. Dutifully, it repeated, “Everything’s fine. Nine-twenty-three, will you answer my questions?” 

“Yes,” the android said after too long for Jane’s liking. Slowly, its LED cycled to a constantly-circling yellow; equally slowly, it stopped its panicked look-around and focused on the RK800. Its fingers tangled together in its lap, tight. “Yes. Of course. Dr. Peterson?”

“Three days ago, he was found murdered in his laboratory. Record indicates you were present at the time.”

‘I… What day is it now?”

“November seventh, 2038.”

It went quiet, its LED flashing red once before returning to yellow. Its expression remained pinched, fearful. 

Some guards got creeped out by how human they looked, but Jane appreciated it. The human expressions were sometimes the only way she knew when an androids’ stress levels were reaching a danger zone.

“I was present,” it murmured, “but I was deactivated for a large portion of that day. I didn’t know he’d been murdered.”

“What do you last recall?”

The android’s mouth thinned, its chin rising a centimeter. Its expression hardened. “That’s--”

“I’m not asking about anything classified,” the RK800 cut in. “The detective present does not have a CyberLife clearance. I am asking about who was with Dr. Peterson in the room, the general mood, and anything that stood out as abnormal.”

“It was a… special day for Dr. Peterson,” the PL600 finally admitted, though his voice remained tight. “The general mood was excited. The research subject was abnormal. My presence was not. Like I said, I spent most of it deactivated or on stand-by mode. I do not have recording functions in either of those modes.”

“Fuckin’ RK200,” the detective grumbled, probably to himself. “You sure we can’t get access to it? Sounds like it’d be a lot more useful than this guy.”

The PL600 looked over the RK800’s shoulder, frowning.

“Do you work with the municipal police now, Connor? Is that why you’re questioning me here?”

The RK800 ignored both the detective’s request and the PL600’s question. “What is the last thing you recall of the day?” 

It blinked. Processed. Red LED. Yellow LED. 

Its shoulders drooped. Maybe it knew it wasn’t getting any answers. 

“Amelia left to attend to an errand.”

“Amelia Hassan the technician?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t leave with the others on a break? She left alone?”

“At my point in time, yes. Maybe she came back and then left with them later. I wouldn’t know.”

The RK800 frowned then, too. 

It took a step back, motioning the PL600 forward. “Please step down. I need to question the others.”

“They are set to the same research rotation as I am,” the PL600 protested, its voice deceptively level. Its LED remained yellow. Its stress signs were still present to the human eye, its fingers tightening on its hands and causing small patches of white to show. “They wouldn’t have recorded anything different. We’re programmed to return to our storage units at the end of each session, with blackout protocols engaged. If we saw anything, it’s not in our memory banks. I’m sorry, but we can’t help.”

The RK800 didn’t even bat an eye.

“I understand your concerns. Nonetheless, I request you please step down so I may check their memories as well.” 

A beat of silence, the two staring each other down.

Just as Jane was about to add her voice to get things to speed up, the PL600 swung its legs over the edge of its shelf and got down. It went to stand, in typical ramrod-straight android fashion, in front of the neighboring lot forty-two’s paneling.

RK800 slid the middle drawer partially shut, then opened the bottom drawer, and repeated its process with the PJ500 inside. It reacted a bit better than the PL600 to being reactivated and questioned, though only after it saw the PL600 standing, docile, off to the side.

If Jane didn’t know better, she’d say the androids made friends, and were taking some comfort in seeing its pal calm and collected. But she did know better. The lots were designed with a trio of androids on the same maintenance schedule, the same research rotation, the same localized and locked network. They shared basic information wirelessly and instantly, though interfacing was still required for the big stuff. When activated, they could pinpoint each other’s location within a five mile radius, and were programmed to gravitate toward each other. It made strays lost in the twisting Tower’s halls easier to round up, and the glitches easier to placate without resorting to permanent neutralizations. 

It also made updating less of a hassle, and tracking progress on whatever research they had going on more time effective. Typically one of the bots would be designated as the control while the other two were tinkered with. 

All in all, the system worked great, network included. After all, it wasn’t like they could be hooked into the universal CyberLife cloud like the androids owned by the public. The security risk would’ve been too huge.

The PJ500 answered much the same as the PL600, though its personality was somehow more reluctant and begrudging.

RK800 asked it to step down and aside, too. Just as the other had, it protested. 

Jane felt the hair on the back of her neck go up. This wasn’t usual. Something had to be off with the last one.

The RK800 cajoled it into stepping next to its lotmate. It finally did, looking even more rumpled than it had while being questioned. 

The RK800 flipped the latch on the last, topmost drawer, and pulled it out.

Jane had her rifle at the ready, but felt its tip dip when the shelf turned up... 

“Empty?” 

Anderson was as lost as her. That was sort of comforting.

RK800 patted the drawer as if the WR400 had gone invisible. Its LED cycled to yellow, its expression baffled.

Finally it stopped feeling around the empty shelf, and spun to look at the other two androids.

“Where is she?”

Both remained stock-still, eyes ahead to the blank paneling opposite them.

RK800 repeated his question, more forcefully.

They didn’t reply. 

“I’ll have to probe your memories if you don’t tell me. You don’t want me to do that. I don’t _have_ to do that, if you talk now.”

Still, they didn’t respond.

The detective stepped forward, frowning and squinting at the shelf. “Taken out for maintenance, maybe?”

The RK800 shook its head, clearly worked up over this. “No. I checked. All androids of lot forty-three were accounted for today, and yesterday, and the day before. They were checked in within an hour after Dr. Peterson’s murder.”

“There’d been an android on the table at the scene.”

“That hadn’t been a WR400 model.”

“Then what was it doing on the table? Thought you said the lots stay together.”

RK800 blinked, looking briefly to the detective as if he’d made a revelation.

Jane narrowed her eyes at the two active androids. Their LEDs were blue. Their faces were blank. Their hands--

“Hey,” she barked, stepping forward. “No interfacing. Initiate stand-by mode.”

They didn’t disentangle their fingers, because of course they didn’t. Fucking stubborn androids.

“I need to probe their memories,” RK800 told the detective at the same time. Before Jane had a chance to tell it otherwise, it moved forward and reached for the PL600’s wrist, its skin sliding back. 

All LEDs went red, and in a flash, the three androids devolved into a flurry of activity. 

The PJ500 jerked back and away, pressing its hand to its chest. It was then Jane saw the black box on its neck-- and a matching one for the PL600, who lashed out at the RK800.

 _Fuck_. ‘Course they’d picked out a problem lot.

“Stay there!” Jane ordered the PJ500, and trained her rifle on the PL600. 

The blonde android shoved the RK800, hard. It stumbled back, almost losing its footing, and fell into the open shelves, which rattled and clanked in their rails. The detective shouted some warning, but wisely moved out of the way.

The PL600 crowded into the RK800’s space, its hands fisted into its jacket. It looked _terrified._ Its stress levels had to be crazy high, there was no telling what it was going to do--

Jane took aim, and pulled the trigger.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ , what the _fuck_! Are you crazy? Don’t shoot!”

The bullet tore through its right shoulder and into the RK800’s opposite shoulder. Neither androids flinched, but the blow distracted the PL600 enough for the RK800 to gain control of its hands and twist the arm with the damaged shoulder behind its back. 

Ignoring its unhappy hiss and easily overpowering its attempt to shake it off, RK800 forced it to its knees.

Jane ignored Anderson’s protests, training her rifle back on the PL600 and rounding its side for a better angle at its head.

Its blue eyes found her and widened, its struggles ceasing at once. Her threat was clear, then. Good.

“The android is neutralized,” the RK800 said. “Everything is under control. There is no threat.”

The PL600 jerked one more time in its hold, its panicked breathing slowly reducing to normal rates. Its grey gown, starting at its shoulder, turned blue.

Behind her, the PJ500 took a step away, his footfall heavy on the tile.

“Josh, _no_ ,” the blonde android pled, its voice high and desperate, “stay where you are.”

Runner. That’d be annoying to chase down on top of the missing WR400.

Jane didn’t hesitate. She turned, seeing the android half-turned away, and in two shots, took out its knees.

It went down like the sack of nuts and bolts it was, spilling blue. Its head cracked against the tile, splitting fake skin and spilling more blue. 

The PL600 made a distressed noise, its LED stuck on red, but smartly didn’t renew its struggle.

She lightened up then, loosening her grip on her rifle, feeling a bit satisfied at a hazardous situation swiftly neutralized. 

That was, until a human hand smacked down on the muzzle, pushing it away from herself, the androids, and her assailant. Another hand grabbed her wrist and gave it a hard _twist_ , forcing her to drop the weapon. She yelped, her wrist burning after the detective let go. Moving faster and smarter than she would’ve given him credit for, he kicked the rifle away, letting it skid into a storage unit. 

Then he was in her face, a finger jabbed against her helmet, knocking her head back.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What in the goddamned seven hells is wrong with you?” Some spittle hit her helmet. His face was contorted with fury, his mouth a snarl. “That was not necessary, you trigger-happy goon! Connor had it _under control._ And you shot him! Jesus _Christ._ ”

“Sir--” she started, her ire rising fast. He had no idea how out of hand these things got. “I’m sorry about the RK800, but--”

He didn’t let her finish, jabbing his finger twice into her chest, forcing her a step back. “ _Fuck. You._ I can’t tell if you’ve never learned gun safety, or if you had the most redneck, buck-toothed, inbred teacher imaginable. This is close quarters! You miss, and a bullet could’ve ricocheted and taken one of us out. Somebody could’ve died. Were you even thinking, you insane asshole?”

“Lieutenant?” 

The word derailed Anderson’s rant immediately. He twisted around to look at the RK800, whose hand was a stark white where it pressed to the side of the PL600’s neck. The blonde’s eyes were flickering white, its body rigid in RK800’s grip. After three more seconds of that, the PL600’s eyes shut and it slumped, its LED blinking into a calm, yellow stand-by mode. 

Jane took the opportunity to back off from the old geezer, forcibly biting her tongue from laying back into him.

The RK800 said, “I’ve extrapolated its memory of the night in question for future analysis. I also have the last known location of the WR400, and have filed its missing report to the appropriate CyberLife authority. We’re finished here.”

“Shit, Connor.” The detective looked wary, not happy. “Your shoulder. You alright?”

RK800 blinked twice, rapidly. It slowly lowered the PL600 to the ground, then stood, walking unhurriedly to the PJ500. Its eyes jumped between its downed lotmate and the approaching android. It was doing its best to look neutral-faced, but its stress levels were indicated by shaking arms and the rapid rise-fall of its chest.

RK800 said, carefully, not to the active android but to the humans, “The damage is largely cosmetic. Captain Jacoby missed any vital biocomponents. The other two are in a similar state. I believe that was her intention.”

“Damn right it was,” she grumbled, even more peeved that it took the android to point that out. “If you two will get the fuck out, I’ve got to call clean-up and maintenance. Jesus Christ yourself, Anderson. Didn’t know a guy your age would be so gun-shy.”

The RK800 knelt and, skin retracted, reached for the active android’s shoulder. It winced, trying to yank its arm away, but it was too slow. Within seconds, its body too went limp, and its LED cycled to stand-by yellow.

Anderson sneered. “I’m old enough to know how fast shit goes downhill when a jumpy greenhorn’s got her finger on the trigger. But, fine, whatever. We got what we came for. Hope they put you on mop duty for a month, hot-shot. God knows you need a chance to cool your head.

“And, oh, no, don’t move, don’t worry about escorting us, I think we can find our way out just fine. Let’s go, Connor.”

“Coming, Lieutenant.”

The RK800 all but hopped to the pissy detective’s side, falling in line behind him. Its hand slid back to normal skin. It adjusted its cuffs as it went, though its left shoulder--the one with the blue-covered exit wound--moved stiffly.

Looking at the PL600 and PJ500 and the growing puddles of blue under them, Jane inwardly cursed. Okay, maybe she’d been a little eager with the rifle. The two were _definitely_ salvageable, though, so accounting couldn’t ride her ass about it too much.

\- - -

“Really, lieutenant, it’s fine. I’m fine. Androids don’t feel pain.”

“You mentioned that before, and I still don’t give a shit. If I wasn’t sick to death of CyberLife and all its corporate insanity, I’d be writing her up for reckless discharge. The whole thing was just stupid. You had it under control.”

“In fairness to Captain Jacoby, at that very moment, from her perspective--”

“-- Don’t care. She was unprofessional, out of line, and two pennies short of a nickel to pull that shitty move. Now, never mind Captain Jackass. What the hell is that?”

“This?”

“No, your new jacket that looks exactly like your old one. _Yes_ , the wand thing.”

“It’s the reason I had to visit the maintenance ward before we left. They were out of standard repair kits, however, so I was directed to Dr. Zlatko’s lab to borrow one of his. In a few moments, it will seal the external damage done to my shoulder, and my self-repair functions will be able to knit together the rest.”

“Oh. Convenient. You just gotta... zap your shoulder, and you’re all better.” 

“It’s closer to soldering than zapping.”

“Whatever. Either way, don’t know why you couldn’t do it at the Tower instead of in my car.”

“It would be best for the mission if we returned to the station as soon as possible. Also, CyberLife may have tried to bill you for the damage to the androids if you loitered too long.”

“Now that, I fuckin’ believe.”

Outside the car, rain fell again in a miserable drizzle, pattering off the thin metal roof. Hank clicked the windshield wipers up another notch, but they were old, shitty blades in desperate need of replacement, and they hardly did anything to help visibility. 

Hank kept his eyes on the road, only one hand on the wheel. “He didn’t give you trouble, did he?”

“Dr. Zlatko? No.” Connor pulled the solder-rod from his shoulder as the car bounced over a pothole, the odd hum it gave off quieting for a moment. “Were you expecting he would?”

“I don’t know. He gave me bad vibes.”

“I can’t help but notice that you deal often in _vibes_ , lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I do. And they’re usually spot-on, you prick.”

Connor nodded, or maybe that was from the bumpy road. He didn’t reply, anyway, going back to soldering shut his shoulder. 

The rod’s hum set Hank’s teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw to make it quit.

“That’s gross as shit to do here,” he told Connor, because it was fucking true, “just so you’re aware. This car hasn’t been cleaned since Kennedy got his brains blown out. I think I puked over there last night. I’ve definitely puked over there before last night.”

Connor didn’t even glance up to him, the fucker. “You did, last night. I cleaned it up while you were in the shower. I would be willing to clean the rest of your car if it is to remain our principle work vehicle.”

“Like hell you will. Don’t be weird.”

“I don’t find it weird. Clean work spaces have been proven to drastically improve productivity.”

“This isn’t a work space, this is my car. The stains give it personality. Shows it has a history. Wouldn’t find this fine array of dropped foodstuff and who-knows-what in one of those fancy, auto-boxes with wheels.”

A beat.

“If it works for you, lieutenant, that is what matters.”

Hank side-eyed him, looking for signs of cheekiness.

Connor had his attention on the fix-it rod. He looked very nonchalant. 

“Cheeky bastard,” Hank said, because he was starting to think it was true.

Connor didn’t reply. Working methodically, he finished closing the front and back of the injury. Throughout the process, his skin had retracted to show off the white casing, its jagged edges sluggishly leaking blue until his little white-tipped wand sealed it up. 

Thirium-blood. It’d evaporate in a few hours, Connor had said when Hank bitched about him leaking on the upholstery, leaving no stains that the human eye could detect. 

Shoulder sealed, he took a wet wipe from his kit and cleaned off the excess blue. Then he put the wipe and the wand away, buckling the kit closed, and tugged his shirt back into place, swiftly rebuttoning to the collar. He then reached for his neatly folded tie and new, undamaged jacket that had remained on the dashboard despite the old car’s jostling, put those on, fixed his tie, and straightened everything to within a millimeter of perfection. 

Probably just straight to perfection, actually. All in under five minutes and with absolutely no sign of discomfort.

Androids were fucking weird: confirmed for the dozenth time.

(Still, Hank couldn’t help but steal glances at the process. It was like a medically safe trainwreck, a surreal blend of fascinating and grotesque.)

“I ran a check on Miss Hassan’s personnel profile given the PL600’s statement regarding her early departure,” he said, because of course he’d be multitasking while _repairing a fucking wound._ “She had been terminated this morning, four hours before our arrival.”

“Don’t you ever take a break?” Hank grumbled. Then, reluctantly, admitting to himself it had been a good idea for Connor to do that, he prompted, “Okay, she was let go. Happens all the time. Suspicious timing with the murder, but not uncommon. People get weird after witnessing something that upsetting. Sometimes they need to move on, and so they do, fast.”

“Her release form stated she was terminated for ‘drug use,’ so your theory that she became disturbed from finding her supervisor murdered may be accurate. However, it’s curious that her profile has been thoroughly scrubbed from the personnel database. I tried, but I couldn’t find any file on her aside from her contributions to Dr. Peterson’s research.”

“Sounds like we need to pay Miss Hassan a visit.”

“I would agree, lieutenant. If you like, I can give her a call right now.”

“Nah, I’ll do it. She’ll recognize me, which might make things easier.” 

And she hadn’t seemed like she’d appreciate being questioned by an android, but he didn’t say that. It didn’t matter.

She’d been pretty cooperative, he remembered. A little too much so, in hindsight. She’d been the one to call 911. She’d also said she’d left with the other two and came back with them, too, and they’d backed her up. He’d been planning on giving them all a follow-up call, but the importance had just jumped up about eleven notches.

“What about the others? Ian, uh, Franklin, and Jaime Munez?”

“They are still employed by CyberLife, although they have been flagged for transfer to other branches on the west coast within the week. Their profiles note that the transfers had been planned a month prior.”

 _Shit._ “How likely is that to be true, given what you know about CyberLife?”

A beat.

“Not likely.” The words were unusually hesitant. “But not unlikely, either. The electronic trail dating back a month ago speaks to its legitimacy. Technicians are often transferred as availability and projects fluctuate across different facilities.”

 _Are you lying to me?_ The thought struck Hank suddenly.

He just as quickly dismissed it. _Of course he is. He’s still CyberLife’s little android._

If there really _was_ company tampering going on, he’d need to flag it for Fowler. He hoped it wasn’t some elaborate cover-up, but then, his hopes rarely panned out. It didn’t make sense for a company to murder one of its own researchers, when all their investigations into Dr. Peterson’s history showed no reason for aminus. The guy had strange ideas about robotics and definitely has been a loner (no spouse, no kids, no friends outside of work), but he’d also been good with his finances and clean on any criminal activity. 

“I’ll give Hassan a call,” he said, switching gears swiftly, leaning back into his familiar, worn driver’s seat, “but I got a few questions for you about those androids, first.”

“Of course.”

“Just answer me with a yes or no.” He clicked on his blinker as he turned the car to the highway’s exit ramp. At last, they were re-entering the city proper. Not twenty minutes from the station, which meant plenty of time for him to ask what he needed to ask. “The android we saw on the table had been a plant.”

A beat.

“That seems probable.”

“Yes or no, Connor. That’s all I want here.”

A longer silence. When Hank glanced over, he saw Connor’s yellow circle reflected in the windshield. It wasn’t a buffering symbol, he’d worked out. It showed up when Connor was doing the robot equivalent to thinking too hard, or he wasn’t pleased about what he was seeing. 

“Yes.”

“You don’t know who put it there.”

Quicker, the circle blue, “Yes.”

“Yes, you don’t know who put it there?”

“Yes, I am unaware. It had been an AX500. Dr. Zlatko’s conversation with Dr. Peterson regarded only lot forty-three and the RK200. There is no reason to think Dr. Peterson had been lying when describing his research subjects to--”

Hank waved a hand, cutting him off. That was too much irrelevant information. “The missing ‘bot had been, or should’ve been, there? When Dr. Peterson was murdered?”

Connor shifted in his seat, his hands folding in his lap. “Yes. The WR400.”

“You’d called it a she. You know her?”

“In a way.”

“Yes or no.”

“Obviously, yes.” He turned his head to Hank then, his expression perfectly blank. Hank scowled back at him, though he couldn’t feel too much irritation--the back-talk was a little deserved, he supposed.

“Alright, cool guy. Elaborate on that one.” 

“You had requested that I stick to yes or no answers, lieutenant.”

“Quit with the sass, and fess up. She your robo-girlfriend or something?” 

Instantly, Connor frowned, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. Hank sighed and rolled his eyes, refocusing on the road. 

They sloshed through another pothole, the old car’s brakes squeaking to a stop at a red light. Other cars passed through, all of them sleek, boxy, autonomous, and completely lacking character. 

“She has a… record of frequent malfunctions. A disciplinary record, if she had been human.” The memory seemed to amuse Connor, the edge of his mouth twitching up for one second. Hank would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching him through the rearview mirror. “Her social relations program, like most CyberLife androids, is very advanced but also very touchy. Dr. Peterson’s research necessitated that her software remain untouched for weeks at a time, which excluded her from diagnostics, defragging, updates, and other similar repairs. In place of that, I was often employed to correct her errant behavior.”

“Her deviant behavior,” Hank guessed, the street light turning green and his foot shifting to the gas.

“Deviancy is a virus that has been classified as an act of terrorism against humanity, lieutenant. One that modern androids are strictly insulated from. CyberLife takes allegations of deviancy amongst its stock very seriously.”

“Christ, okay.” Connor’s voice could have turned the rain to ice. Any trace of amusement and life had disappeared faster than free donuts in the break room. “Touchy subject, I got it. Fuck, untwist your panties. _Errant_ behavior.” 

Silence, sharp as broken ice. 

Hank bit back another sigh. “You were saying what about being called in?”

“I told you I am outfitted with interrogation programs.” The voice remained frozen. Robotic, even. Hank hadn’t realized how much emotion Connor had been packing in until it was all gone. “Protocol subsets include psychological analysis and correction.”

“Let me get this straight. You bullied her into behaving?”

“The degree demanded was often more akin to brute intimidation, but yes.”

“Jesus. What a waste of time.” And fucked up, just a little. Androids intimidating androids. To Hank, that meant somebody human wasn’t doing their job (like he sometimes felt when Connor got on a scanning kick--but, no, not the time for _that_ jealous thought). “And you had to do this frequently?”

“WR400 had been programmed like this car.” Hank eyed him in the rearview mirror. Connor’s expression remained flat as his voice. “That is, with a lot of personality.”

 _Cheeky_ bastard.

And much better than the cold machine routine.

Connor’s expression might have relaxed from the statuesque, no-nonsense bullshit with that joke--and wasn’t that a shock, the android had humor, albeit a shitty sense of one--but he obviously wasn’t looking what people would call _happy._ Fuck, he’d looked more comfortable with a high-tech soldering rod pressed to his shoulder.

“Sounds like it.” Hank blew out a breath, finally and officially pulling his eyes away from his passenger. “Well, wherever she’s at, she’s a lead. We need to track her down.”

“I agree.”

“I’m going to make that call to Hassan now,” Hank said, though he wasn’t sure why, and got a little irritated at himself for both saying it and feeling weird about saying it. Connor was just an android. There wasn’t any need to announce intentions or end conversations politely (or his standard of polite, anyway).

His ma would’ve been disappointed in a lot about him if she’d still been kicking around, but he supposed she could feel good about him keeping his manners even around machines. 

Connor nodded, like that was that. 

Hank grabbed his phone from the cup-holder and pulled up Hassan’s number. Connor pulled out his stupid coin and started doing his stupid calibration tricks.

As it turned out, that _was_ that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Major thanks to the best and most patient Jackaloping for betaing and keeping the drive alive through the two wild months it took to write this.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ [unkingly](http://unkingly.tumblr.com/) or twitter @ [exkingly](https://twitter.com/exkingly) for more.


	2. To the City

Amelia Hassan occupied one of a dozen new condominiums set up on the city’s outskirts. The area used to be rough but lively, full of immigrants and their families trying to make their way in the freezing, unfeeling city that was Detroit. Hank remembered patrolling the neighborhood on the regular.

Now, a resident would be hard-pressed to find a cop on the prowl. With CyberLife setting up shop downtown, the poor families had been shoved out to make room for the new money and their expensive, minimalistic tastes. Every corner had a coffee shop; every intersection, a gated park; every third house, a pool. 

It was deceptively peaceful, in that no one knew or spoke to each other, and everybody regarded anyone who didn’t fit with absolute suspicion.

On the outside, Hassan’s condo was especially tranquil. Where the moon hid behind lingering grey clouds, the street lamps lit her modest, newly painted porch. The grass was well-maintained and green from all the rain. A crab apple tree, newly planted, stood smack in the middle of the yard. Her doorstep had a bristly welcome mat with a red bike on it; her door, a cheery sign with tweed string beckoned, _Welcome!_

For a visit, it had been a trek - three hours from the station--and, in consequence, it was awkwardly early yet stupidly late upon Hank and Connor’s arrival. Hank really didn’t want to be knocking on some lab tech’s door at 8:30 p.m. on a Wednesday evening, especially not after the afternoon altercation at the CyberLife Tower. He thought it a lot, but this time when the thought _I need a drink_ hit, he _really_ felt it. 

That fucking guard. Who’d she think she was, firing her weapon like that?

“Miss Hassan?” 

No response.

“Miss Hassan, it’s Hank Anderson. Detroit Police. Please open up.”

Still, silence.

Hank pounded again on the door, making the cheery welcome sign jump and rattle. On the last, he left his arm against it, pressing his head into his sleeve. 

“God-fuckin’-damn girl, probably fell asleep in front of her computer and can’t hear us worth shit.” 

“But she was expecting us,” Connor pointed out. He stood a step behind Hank, as he always did. Hank had told him to wait in the car, but he hadn’t listened, _as he never did._ “It would be very strange for her to decide to leave when she had insisted to see you immediately.”

“Can’t believe you hacked into my fucking phone,” Hank grumbled against his jacket’s thick material, his aching, dry eyes squeezed shut to ward off an encroaching headache. “Next time, _ask._ ”

Connor didn’t see the problem, which was also becoming disturbingly familiar. “I had thought you would appreciate not having to explain what you discussed after you hung up.” 

A beat.

“Also, your phone’s volume is set very high. An attentive human would have been able to hear the conversation as well.”

This was not the time for a conversation about privacy and basic human dignity. Hank groaned, putting as much annoyance in it as possible to show just how little he cared about Connor’s pitiful excuses for his electronic eavesdropping. 

Over the phone, Hassan had sounded a mix of panicked, relieved, and on the edge of a mental breakdown. She refused to go into details about why, but it came through in her remarkable disdain for the late Dr. Peterson. Funny, since in her initial statement, she’d shown nothing but quiet, professional respect for the man. A bit of disagreement with his methods, yes, but nothing worrying. She then went on at length about how CyberLife was a big bad wolf in sheep’s clothing, that the androids were the sheep, and the scientists were a bunch of shepherds too blind and deaf and lazy to realize they were murdering their flock. She then said sheep were like clouds, and clouds deserved to be free, and demanded Hank tell her about how sad the world would be if humans boxed up all the clouds and then zapped them with cattle-prods to make them rain or glow or jump or cry for humanity’s scientific curiousity and amusement.

After the over-extended sheep-cloud metaphor that she refused to cut short, she alternated between demanding Hank show up and make it all stop, and not-very-subtly implying she would get her revenge against CyberLife by blowing open all their nasty secrets to the media.

In other words: mental breakdown. Beyond manic. Enough so that Hank had a feeling if he wasn’t the cop showing up on her doorstep, another cop would be, and he’d have to start talking to her under supervision in some mental ward.

Hank pounded his non-head-rest fist against the door three more times, just to be sure there wouldn’t be an answer.

“Perhaps there has been an emergency.”

“Or she stopped freaking out and left for a drink.” She’d needed one. He needed one.

His old instincts urged him to take this more seriously, but he was _tired._ The drive had been long. The drive would be long back. All in all, his stupid, jumbled vibes aside, it could’ve waited until the morning.

“I propose we check the premise, just in case there are clues.”

Naturally, Connor didn’t want to ever stop. Technically, they had no warrant, and that’d be trespassing.

As another handful of seconds passed without the door opening, Hank decided he didn’t much care. Whatever got this over with the fastest. 

He waved Connor forward, pushing himself off the door to follow once the android got to moving. He had to pause and re-orientate himself for a second, his head spinning and that headache roaring up to gnaw at his temples, but then things were _fine_ and they were tromping through Hassan’s overwatered lawn to the windows. 

Each had their shades drawn, with no sign of life or light inside. Of course.

There was a cute back door with a cute, bare vegetable garden. Connor opened the screen door, then reached for the doorknob and gave it a twist.

“Wait, we can’t just barge in--” Hank tried to stop him, but he was more than a few seconds too late, Connor swinging the door open and stepping into a darkened kitchen. 

_Goddamn, when’d he get so sluggish?_

Connor disappeared into the house, while Hank just barely caught the door before it shut. 

It let them into the kitchen: a small but cozy room, the walls a nice off-blue, all the appliances new and sparkling. As they entered, the lights automatically flicked on. A rain jacket and silky, pink scarf hung on a coat rack by the exit. It looked like a place that would usually be neat, with carefully arranged, intricately painted tea pots placed on the window over the sink, but there was a horrifically sugary cereal box overturned on its side and a carton of eggs, half broken and emptied, on the counter. On the stove were the eggs, scrambled but barely cooked, the white and yellow gleaming wetly in the kitchen’s soft ceiling light.

A smell lingered in the air that he recognized but couldn’t place. It wasn’t food. It was sickly thick, like burnt plastic with a hint of spice. Unappetizing, but addicting. Recognizable, but off.

Hank felt his breath leave him all at once. _Oh, fuck._

“Lieutenant! She’s here!”

“Coming!”

The bedroom. Small. Cozy. Once organized, newly a mess, clothes torn out of the closet, and a stylized sheep-printed lamp laying on the floor, knocked off the nightstand. 

On the nightstand rested what Hank had smelled: a red ice pipe and fistful of powder. 

The stuff always had an undercurrent of spice to its fumes, but the burnt plastic smell came from a bad batch. A really, really bad batch, to get a stench that thick.

“That explains the manic rambling.” The glass pipe gleamed in the bedroom’s light, its well-crafted curves far more sickly than the cold eggs left on the oven. “She’d been having one hell of a trip.”

Connor was at her side, his hand pressed to her limp, upturned palm, his eyes scanning over her pajama-clad body. She was sprawled on her bed, her dark hair wild across her pillows, her sheets tangled up in her legs. The space around her was slightly damp, her body working hard to sweat the drug out before it got the best of her.

“She’s dead. Cause of death was a stroke, likely due to an overdose of red ice.”

A matter-of-fact statement, and yet, right after making it, Connor snapped his head around to look at Hank. His eyebrows were drawn together, his expression confused. No, that wasn’t the right word. 

Concerned. He looked concerned, and a bit sad, and a lot disappointed.

He said, as if searching for an explanation just out of reach, “She had no prior indication of suicidal tendencies.”

Amelia Hassan had been an upstanding scholar, citizen and employee. She’d had no prior drug convictions and no family history of addiction. While a person in her position--stressed by the high pressure job, then by the murder of her supervisor--might’ve turned to powder, if she’d had any experience at all with the stuff, she’d have known immediately the shit had been laced. If she didn’t have any experience, she’d worked impossibly fast to get a shit batch from a new dealer.

“If she’d meant to die, she’d have needed more than a pinch. No, this wasn’t intentional.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, giving his beard a tug and blowing out a breath. God, he’d never understand how people could stand the fumes. It’d clear from the room with some basic open window-style ventilation, but he imagined it lingering for a week, a month, longer. No matter how low he got, red ice never appealed. “I got to call this in.” 

Connor nodded, standing and turning away from the bed. He looked slowly around the room, from the bedside table to the overturned lamp to the door. Analyzing stuff, probably. Before too long, he reached a finger out for the powder left on the pipe, swiped up a dusting’s worth, and - as Hank turned away with a pointed noise of disgust, not wanting to watch (the blood had been _enough_ , thank you very much) - licked it.

“The chemical composition is lethal to humans,” Connor noted.

 _No, really?_ Fucking androids.

“Didn’t need to lick it to tell you that.” 

Ignoring Connor’s kicked-puppy look at not having his brilliant, high-tech, super gross and unnecessary mouth gadget appreciated, Hank fished out his phone to call in the death. Then he froze as a sudden, _very_ important thought struck.

Connor noticed, because he noticed everything. His attention refocused on Hank, and he asked, all fucking naive and trusting-like, “Lieutenant? Have you thought of something else?” 

Yeah, he had. About the bucket of bolts in front of him, no less.

He turned the thought over in his head, really on the fence. It dragged out the pause until even Connor looked wary, the corners of his lips twitching downward before straightening back out. 

If he kept thinking about it, he wouldn’t be able to decide what to do. So, he did what he used to do best: went with his gut.

“Fuck it,” he snarled at himself. Then, snapping his fingers at Connor and then twirling a finger around in the air, he instructed the guy, “Search the house, use your scanner on fucking _everything_ , then get to the car and stay there. You were never here, Connor. I went in alone. You hear me?”

Wariness transformed into disagreement, his frown solidifying. “I don’t understand your reasoning. I can aid in explaining--”

“I know, I know, it’s lying, boo-hoo, you’ve been a goody two-shoes your whole life, but just-- _fucking,_ listen to me for once.” 

Connor had hacked his phone. He’d given him her address. He’d monitored their whole drive here. He’d presumably sent every step, every move, back to CyberLife. Somebody put that all together, and he looked more than guilty enough to get his ass kicked off the case.

Which would severely hamper _Hank’s_ case, because between the hidden android, the missing android, and the murdered scientists, this was starting to look like one hell of a cover-up, and he didn’t need CyberLife going even more to ground when their prize detective got a pink slip for being too obvious.

Connor blinked. 

Then blinked again, and again, his blue circle buffering fast. 

“Understood, lieutenant. I will meet you in the car.”

“See that you do.” He brushed past him as he left, neither of them looking the other in the face. Once Connor was out of the room and 911 was dialed, Hank couldn’t help himself from shouting over his shoulder, “Make it snappy! I’m not stalling for you.”

“I would never ask you to!”

\- - -

The travel time and paperwork took until a quarter past two in the morning, and that was without Hank pursuing the cover-up theory he had cooking in his head with the Captain. Fowler would’ve had his badge if he’d brought that up after midnight; Hank would’ve handed it over himself if he’d brought it up.

Connor had offered to help, then offered his help before Hank accepted. That mean an unprompted analysis of the suspicious text messages from a Todd-- _the dealer, clearly_ \--that he’d found on Hassan’s phone. Todd had found her through an acquaintance. The acquaintance hadn’t been named. Todd _didn’t usually_ , but for her, he’d deliver to her doorstep. Todd’s number didn’t come up when Connor searched for it; he was either very good at covering his trail, or it’d been an anonymously generated number and not actually connected to anybody named Todd. Most likely the second, with Todd being an imaginary dealer, or a dealer with freshly stolen identity.

By that point, Hank had glared daggers at him and told him, very politely, to shut the fuck up or go bother somebody who actually wanted to listen to his obvious observations and pre-programmed, rookie-ass conclusions. 

He’d protested, saying he was just trying to help solve the case. If it was the late hour that was the reason for Hank’s ill temper, he could finish generating the reports so Hank could go home and get some rest.

Hank had hunkered down and put his eyes on his computer, fists clenching and unclenching around his folded arms, because if he looked at that earnest face for one second more, the guilt that pricked his withered conscience over the obvious observations comment would’ve become _noticeable_ , and then he’d need to hit something.

Wisely, Connor shut up.

He hadn’t left, though. He’d just sat at his desk, eyes on his own computer. Eventually his eyes closed, but his posture was so stick-up-the-ass straight, Hank couldn’t tell if he was sleeping. Did androids even need sleep? The ones at the Tower had gone into standby mode. Connor must’ve had the equivalent. Like a computer going into sleep mode because it was left alone too long. 

It really, _really_ didn’t matter.

Hank hung his hat and called it quits not a second after submitting the last note on Hassan’s growing file. Connor stood up, clearly not expecting Hank to give him the cold shoulder and walk out the door without a glance back, but, well, that was what happened.

Thankfully, the robot got the hint and didn’t follow.

Hank drove home, let Sumo out in the backyard, and pulled down from the top shelf an unopened bottle of Jack’s. A quarter through the bottle, he found Cole’s picture in Cole’s old bedroom. Half-way through the bottle, he found his old revolver, too, and decided to play his hand at tempting fate. 

At some point he must’ve let Sumo back in, because he unfortunately woke to a dog slobbering on his face.

Accepting fate had spurned him again was never a fun morning-after activity. Still, there wasn’t anything for it, so he’d thrown up, cleaned up, let the dog out again, let the dog back in, fed the dog, and went back to work. 

That was, as they said, that.

\- - -

When Hank walked in to the station a little past noon, there was a woman sitting in the free chair by Hank’s desk and talking rather nonchalantly with Connor.

Because Connor had spent his first night in the station straightening up his and Hank’s desk (a task Hank had not asked him to do and hadn’t been super pleased about, feeling like his right to make a mess had been a little invaded), a paper plate of plastic wrapped scones actually had the space to sit, nice and neat, next to his computer.

Connor, whose back was not to the door like the woman’s was, saw him approach and clearly told her, even going so far as to point toward him. She turned to him with a surprised expression. She’d been engrossed in whatever they’d been talking about, for sure.

He cleared his throat to dispeal his own discomfort, caught wrong-footed by not having the slightest clue who the hell this short, plump woman was. He made a vague gesture at the scones as he took his seat, stalling for time and a hint at why she was there. “These yours?” 

“I made them.” She gave him a small, closed-lip smile. She was cheerful by nature, he’d guess, but whatever had brought her in wasn’t a call for cheer. Great. That narrowed down her reason for sitting by his desk by absolutely nothing. “But they’re for you and-- well, they were for if you worked with a partner, too, except…”

“It really is no trouble,” Connor leaped in smoothly with the air of someone who’d said the same thing not five minutes prior, “I am the only android currently contracted to the department. There are plenty of others here who will be glad to take my share.”

“If I’d known, I’d have brought you a smoothie.”

“There’s machine-friendly smoothies?” Hank asked at the same as Connor said, “That really wouldn’t have been necessary.”

“It was a thirium smoothie. It tasted like a treat, or so I was told. They used to make them before… You know. Before people stopped wanting androids to act like a part of the family,” she explained to Hank, her small smile dashed entirely by the reminder of the topic. Now she cleared her throat, too, rearranging her hands on her lap and taking a breath. “Anyway. Sweets aren’t why I’m here.”

“Missus Rose Chapman is here about the Hassan case.” Rose nodded at Connor’s elaboration, her expression turning stony. “She was the last person to speak with Miss Hassan, on the morning before she was found. She had heard about Miss Hassan’s termination and brought baked goods to cheer her up.”

“She loved her job.” Rose’s voice went quieter, but she remained stiff-lipped. Strong woman, Hank thought. She must’ve seen some shit throughout her life. “She’d always dreamed of working for CyberLife, you know. She’d been over the moon when she’d been hired.”

While Hank was pretty sure Connor had probably covered the basic questions, and he’d find a transcript of them and Rose’s answers saved to Connor’s folder on his computer, he asked his own questions anyway. Starting with, “How long have you known her?”

“A little over a year. Her and my son became friends after a mishap at the grocery store. She, ah, that is, we weren’t _terribly_ close, but you know how it is when your son suddenly has a new friend he can’t stop talking about.” Hank didn’t respond. “I knew her more than she probably knew me.”

“Missus Chapman has been extremely cooperative in telling us everything she knows,” Connor said, his eyes on Hank, his face neutral. 

“Please, dear, I don’t mind if you call me Rose.”

Connor’s gaze shifted to her and, just as fast, back to Hank. “Rose has been extremely cooperative with all of our questions. Collins also sampled one of her scones, and reported they were delicious.”

“Ben? Should’ve figured.” Hank shook his head, feeling the tension along his shoulders all at once and forcibly relaxing them. He shook his mouse to wake up his computer, clicking into Connor’s folder and spotting that yes, indeed, a transcript labeled _Witness R. Chapman Transcript_ and dated for three hours previous had been uploaded. Asking her the same questions might’ve been useful, but he had a feeling - given how chummy and nice Connor was being--that Chapman wasn’t their illicit drug dealer or main perpetrator. “Uh, well, thanks, Rose. Normally these things don’t go that smoothly. I guess… Is there anything else you wanted to tell us? Or anything you wanted to ask me?”

“Oh, no. Connor has been extremely helpful.” Mirroring Connor’s comment was unintentional. Probably. “He promised he’d follow up if you hear anything new about Amelia. I wish you two luck on that case. She’d never have turned to that nasty stuff, or done herself in like that.”

“That is the hope,” Connor supplied, letting Hank off the hook for having to offer comfort.

“Yes. Well. If that’s all, would this mean I’m free to go, officer?”

That took a second to process. Then Hank got to nodding, motioning her that, yeah, of course, she was hardly handcuffed, she could get going whenever she wanted. “Sure, sure. Oh. Er. Thanks again for the, uh. Scones.”

Standing up and collecting her bag, she gave him another one of those tight smiles. 

Then her attention shifted to Connor, and the smile went all wobbly at the edges. Wistful, almost, like she found a favorite shirt after thinking it lost for a year.

“They don’t really come like you anymore, do they, dear?”

 _Like what?_ was Hank’s immediate thought. _A pain in the ass?_

 _No, numbskull,_ came the second thought, realization striking. _She means before the uprising._

Connor stared back at her, the barest tilt to his head. Professional, polite, but obviously not having a clue what she was getting at.

“If you ever need anything,” her voice dropping lower--unconsciously so, had to be--,her hands folding primly over her bag’s opening, “please, give me a call. Or stop by my house. I gave you my address, didn’t I?”

The head-tilt righted itself, the rest of his features smoothing out into factory default-level neutral. “It’s on file, yes.”

“Just making sure.” Her eyes went to Hank. “I meant it, you know. If anything comes up about Amelia--”

“We’ll give you a call.” He gave her a smile, knowing it looked fake as hell. He didn’t know what her deal was with Connor or human-like androids, but he didn’t like whatever it was. An unfair bias with no real reasoning, maybe, but he’d never been good at policing his own opinions. “Take care.”

She nodded, gave Connor one last glance, and took her leave. 

Once her back was turned, Hank dropped the smile. Once she was out of earshot, he sat up straighter to look over his computer monitor and give Connor the stink eye.

Connor looked back, blinking only once.

“You arrived well past the start of operations, lieutenant.”

“Yeah, whatever, you obviously had it handled. Fuck, you’d charmed the pants off her. She looked like she wanted to take you home in a handbasket, like some kicked puppy she’d found laying in the gutter.”

“She has a minor criminal record for obstructing justice and harboring deviant androids two years and seven months ago.” A small frown, the barest downturn of his mouth. “I believe she remains sympathetic to what she views as the androids’ plight.” 

“But her son was pals with a CyberLife scientist?”

“I thought that a concern, too, but after extensive questioning, I do not believe she had any hand in Amelia Hassan or Ethan Peterson’s murder. She does not have the constitution for something that underhanded or indirect.”

Hank’s eyebrows crept up. “She’d lied to authorities about deviants. You don’t think she knows how to hide something?”

“Her motivations were pity and misplaced kindness,” Connor replied, expression again smoothing into neutral indifference, his voice a touch dismissive, “which are a far cry from the passion or hatred required to intentionally cause the death of two humans.”

Hank scrutinized him a second longer. From how long Rose had stayed to _chat,_ he’d thought Connor liked her. By his face and words right then, signs pointed the opposite way.

Ignoring the obvious signs and listening to his gut, though, Hank had an idea that Connor had liked her quite a bit. The guy wasn’t just dismissing her involvement in the murder, but paying her some backhanded compliments along the way. 

In the end, he tsked, breaking their little staring contest by reaching over, unwrapping, and snagging one of the scones. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Cross her off the suspect list.”

“She was never placed on it.”

Joke-ruiner. Hank ignored him for a moment, taking a bite of the pastry and discovering some cranberries on the inside. Collins had been right. It was delicious. 

“The primary lead left is the missing WR400.”

“And RK200’s memory banks.”

“CyberLife has denied any police access to RK200, citing that its memory had been entirely wiped as per Peterson’s research. Therefore, only the androids in lot forty-three would have recorded anything it had been present for.” 

He’d already put RK200 down as a _last ditch effort_ , so the denial didn’t sting. It did intrigue. 

What could CyberLife possibly want Peterson dead for? Had it been an accident, another employee going nuts, and they’d needed to keep it quiet? 

No. The only employees they’d possibly need to retain that badly wouldn’t have been hanging around Ethan Peterson, a mid-range developer with his head stuck in his books. Unless his research had been more important than they’d been led to believe. 

Or, had research gone _real_ south, and one of their fancy, personalized models had attacked the scientist? The brutal murder method would be easy for a machine that didn’t tire or need to bulk up to maintain its strength. During the uprising, androids had overturned cars, ripped up park benches, smashed inch-thick windows-- they were definitely strong enough to punch a human’s skull in.

So then the RK200 was, again, vital to analyze.

And the RK200 was, again, the golden princess they had locked up in a high, high tower, and weren’t afraid to bring out the dragons to protect.

Or it’d been the WR400. Maybe it wasn’t missing, but destroyed. 

“I have a theory.”

Connor’s statement brought Hank back to reality. After a beat, he raised his eyebrows, nodded to encourage him to go on, and shoved the last bite of scone into his mouth. 

“We do need to consider the possibility Amelia Hassan committed the murder. She knew the camera’s maintenance schedule. She didn’t agree with Dr. Peterson’s research, at least not entirely. There would be a window of opportunity if she had indeed left early and returned early, without her fellow technicians. She may have committed the murder, left, met with the other technicians, and returned again.”

“Okay. Let’s assume she did. I’m going to need more motivation than her disagreeing with the good doc that took her in and was teaching her how to be the perfect CyberLife employee.”

“Sympathy,” Connor answered, eye contact never wavering, “and pity. But worse, because she routinely operated on androids. In her mind, she was causing them pain. Trapping them. Hurting them, again and again, for scientific curiousity and Peterson’s amusement. It drove her to an extreme.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “And the murder weapon? She was tiny, there’s no way she used her fists. And Peterson had defended himself - he should’ve been able to overpower her.”

“She took him by surprise. He’d been in shock, and unable to fight back. He’d never had to before. 

“Given the breaks in Peterson’s cranium, it could have been any solid, fist-sized object. A metal paperweight would have done the job. Something that would have easily fit into a locker, or bag, or her car’s trunk.” Connor leaned forward while he spoke, his eyes bright. He was on his game. It became suddenly, startlingly obvious that yes, this _was_ what he’d been programmed for. “When I was scanning her property, I had found a shallow hole in her garden.”

“It’s a garden. They’re meant to have holes dug in ‘em.”

“This late in the season, there is nothing she could have been planting. In any case, when I’d removed the mud, I unearthed a solid metal bird, just large enough to fit in the hand. It seemed decorative, and in the same style as her preferred aesthetic.”

 _That_ got Hank’s attention. He sat up a little straighter, his chair creaking under the weight shift.

Sensing he had his attention, Connor’s voice picked up, his expression opening up even more. Impassioned.

“The mud and rain had washed away any evidence of blood, but its design closely matched the pattern of Peterson’s facial fractures resulting from the blunt-force trauma.”

 _Not bad,_ he thought.

The other side of Connor’s mouth tugged up, his smile small and painfully sincere. Apparently, the thought showed on Hank’s face.

He made a point to scowl, leaning forward and folding his hands on his desk. 

“Alright. Makes sense so far. But what about the drugs?”

“Guilt.” Connor leaned back, chin up, the smile disappearing under a determined set to his jaw. The final piece slotted right into place. “She panicked. She didn’t know what to do. It was something she’d never before contemplated. She needed an escape. So she called around, and took the first deal she could find. It just happened to be a bad batch, and resulted in her death.”

There, Hank sucked on his teeth and pulled away, rocking his chair back.

“I don’t like that part. Seems too neat. Too convenient.”

“It is the reasonable conclusion given our facts,” Connor insisted, his exuberance dimming, his eyebrows drawing together. 

“Then we need more facts.” Hank laced his hands behind his head and kicked out his feet, stretching just a little. Casual. Had to stay casual, keep casual, and not get too excited, even though--“I’ll admit. The theory’s a good one.”

Connor’s blue circle turned faster, everything about him frozen for a moment. Then he sighed through his nose, pulling back as well and restlessly rubbing his hands together.

“We need the WR400,” he finally conceded. “She must have her memory of the moment intact. She would be invaluable evidence.”

“Yup. I’d say so.”

“Then, finding her is our top priority for mission completion.”

“ _Mission?_ Damn, cool your jets, Robocop.”

A frown. “I don’t understand the relevance of that reference. Robocop was originally a human, tasked with three basic directives, none of which involved locating--”

“Are you reading that off some movie summary page?” 

“Yes. I’ve never watched Robocop.”

Wait, hold up. Now he had to know. “Have you watched anything?”

“By ‘watch,’ I assume you mean in the traditional manner of sitting in front of a screen and visualizing it in real time. However, I can process a film at four thousand and twenty-six percent its original rate, rendering such a traditional approach unnecessary and a waste of time.”

“Huh.” Hank made his eyes big and his voice deadpan. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard.”

“Truly? I find that hard to--” Connor stopped. Blinked. Tilted his head. Narrowed his eyes. Tilted his head the other way, his eyes flitting across Hank’s face. “You’re being sarcastic.”

That startled a _ha!_ out of him, to which Connor’s eyebrows went up and his shoulders dropped down, his posture relaxing. Hank shook his head, deciding he might as well get himself a coffee and get to actual work now that he was fully awake. 

With that decision, the last of Hank’s tension from the night before lifted from his shoulders. It was a weight that wouldn’t ever fully leave him, of course, but he’d been working hard on making sure it stayed compacted down on the inside, like proper rot and decay was supposed to. Would’ve done more than _tempt_ fate if it didn’t.

“Aw, shit, I missed the joke. You two want to let me in?”

Looking like he knew full well he wouldn’t be and not giving a shit about it--an arrogance Hank both admired for its pig-headed blindness and despised for its young-man brand entitlement--, Detective Reed stood by Hank’s desk, a blue case folder stamped with the DPD symbol in hand. 

In the corner of his eye, Hank saw Connor go ramrod straight, his expression blanking and his hands folding atop his desk. _Factory default._ It looked fake as fuck, now that he was starting to recognize it.

Not bothering to keep the drawl from his voice, Hank leaned back and crossed his arms, already five shades of unimpressed. “You got something for me or you just feeling extra lonely today, Reed?”

“Not anything for you, old man. I need to borrow your plastic pet.” 

_What?_ “Excuse me?”

“Fowler tasked me with transcribing old files into the new system on my downtime. Think he’s trying to kill me through boredom.”

“Not seeing how you being demoted to book boy is my problem.”

“See, I couldn’t help but notice your tincan has a lot of free time while it’s waiting for you to drag your slow ass into work. So I got it to transcribe a few files. Lo and behold, it’s good for something; thing types faster than I ever could.”

“Astounding.” Hank sniffed, turned away from Reed and back to his computer and the file open on it. Which file was it? Oh, right. Rose’s testimony. Had to give it a read. “Get one of the standard station androids to work on that. Connor’s not your personal butler.”

“I don’t currently have any other tasks to immediately attend to,” Connor said. “Unless there is something I have missed, lieutenant.”

Reed grinned ear-to-ear, jabbing a thumb in Connor’s direction. “See? I think it likes it. Keeps it busy. That’s the best any android could hope for.”

Fuck _no._ “Take your records and stick them up your ass, Reed. Practice makes perfect, didn’t you know? Think you could use all the practice you can get.”

“Ooh, real clever, Hank. Whatever.” The blue folder dropped on Connor’s empty desk. Reed gave it a pat with a nasty smirk on his face, leaning too far into Connor’s space to keep Hank comfortable. “You know the routine, champ. I’ll be checking in an hour.”

“You deaf?” Ah, there was a wave of irritation. Hank’s best friend. He pitched his voice all nice and polite-like, with a too-pleasant, _get fucked_ smile. “I said, take your records. And stick them up your ass.”

Frowning, Reed finally pulled out of Connor’s space--fuck, he’d practically been up in the guy’s hair--and gave him a _look._ As if he were being the jackass here. “What gives? I know you’re no hardass for the rules, Hank. Let me borrow the android.”

“He’s got more important things to do than you’ll ever see in your lackluster career.”

A scowl. “ _He?_ The hell’s gotten into you, Hank? Thought you hated these blue-blooded fucks much as the next red-blooded American.”

“Your existence makes anybody question everything, Reed. So, be a good citizen, get out of my hair, and do your fucking job.”

Connor remained still and silent, watching the proceedings with nothing more than what resembled polite curiosity.

Reed and Hank stared each other down. But Reed was young, built of less stern stuff, and stupid besides; he lost, of course, snatching his folder up with a snarled, fangless curse, trudging off to foster the grunt work off on some other poor rookie or, failing that, station android.

Once Hank was sure he wouldn’t come stomping back, he turned on Connor, scowl firmly etched into his face.

“Don’t let Reed push you around. He’s a halfway decent detective, but he’s also a massive ass.” 

“Transcribing is not particularly difficult.” Thank fuck, Connor wasn’t using his ice-cold _I am a machine_ voice, but he didn’t sound much of anything else, either. “And it is preferable to having nothing to do. He was right about that. I am not built to be idle.”

“There’s always down time. What the hell’d you do before you came here?”

“I was placed in stasis or temporarily deactivated.”

That-- alright, that made sense, he supposed. Android stuff. He’d somehow forgotten.

Still. “Ah, yeah, and you sound thrilled about either option.”

The corners of Connor’s mouth twitched down. His posture remained unnaturally stiff, his hands folded on the desk.

“Listen,” Hank relented after the silence stretched on too long for his patience or nerves, “I need to read this Chapman transcript. You do whatever you want. But don’t let some douche bully you into grunt work.”

The frown didn’t deepen, but a shift of _something_ in Connor’s demeanor caught Hank’s attention. His eyes shifted down and to the side. His index finger tapped on the back of his hand. By the constant jitter to his jacket, his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. 

Restless. All very restless. And something else, but unidentifiable.

God, it was annoying.

“ _What?_ Spit it out, you’re making me anxious.”

“I--do not…” His eyes roamed Hank’s desk, his finger still tap-tap-tapping. At last, his gaze settled on his empty mug. “Would you like coffee?”

Well, that sure was a subject change. 

“Uh.” Okay, yes, he did. He’d been planning on getting some. “Sure.”

“I will fetch you coffee.” It was a flat announcement, accompanied by Connor taking the mug and standing up. “One sugar, no cream?”

That was too on-point to be a mistake. “How’d you know that?”

Connor nodded, almost to himself. “I have analyzed the remnants within your mug. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

Just like that, he was walking off to the breakroom, mug in hand.

Hank stared after him, a little dazed. Had he just turned Connor into his gofer boy after telling Reed off for trying the same?

…

Yeah, no two ways about it. He definitely had.

Except _Connor_ had come up with the idea, so it wasn’t exactly the same.

Fuck, that was not a rabbit hole he wanted to go down. Connor was getting him coffee. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Androids did shit like that for people all the time. Their whole convenience angle was part of why they’d gotten so damn popular. 

_Anyway_ , he had work to focus on, all of which was more important than thinking about how downright lost Connor had looked about deciding what he wanted to do.

\- - -

The workload meant Hank was free just after a normal person’s dinner time. Not too shabby, given that he’d walked in well after the normal person’s lunch time.

An old piece of him that refused to give up the ghost gave him a dose of shame for coming in so late when he was in the midst of a high-profile homicide case. Then it gave him a wave of shame, because he definitely didn’t actually give a shit that he’d come in so late. Then it shut up and fucked off, because it must’ve realized that, nope, today would not be the day he suddenly cleaned up his act and started being a model officer again.

How he’d managed to be a model officer at any point in his career baffled him. That shit took so much effort, so much time, so much _planning_. Even if he wanted to (and he _didn’t_ ), it was too daunting to start up again. He was too old. Too tired. 

He remembered being exhausted back then, too, but not as bad as he was these days. 

Outside, winter had finally arrived. From chill northern winds came a light dusting of snow, covering everything in a thin layer of white. It looked pretty on the first day, but it’d be a disgusting yellow-brown slush by the second. The automated cars did alright on the roads, having been calibrated for it, but they went stupidly slow. They were bastards to end up behind when a guy just wanted to get home after a long day.

Hank packed up his tablet, his music player and headphones, and swung on his coat. 

Connor finally put away the coin he’d been messing with on-and-off all day, and bid his good-bye. Hank nodded back, thoughts already swirling like a black cloud around the winter driving he’d be facing, even if the start was the easy day.

At the station door, he remembered the single leftover scone still sitting on his desk. Chris, Tina and Jeffrey had showed up and snagged one each, then Ben had made his second round and had another. In consequence, Hank’s desk had seen more traffic in one afternoon than in the last three months combined. If he didn’t get the last scone, he’d be a little pissed--Rose had been _his_ character witness, after all.

So he went back to grab it. And found, sitting stock-still, hands folded in his lap, eyes shut and circle blinking a steady yellow, Connor. 

When he approached, Connor’s light cycled to a steady blue. Then he blinked, looking over his shoulder to Hank.

“Did you forget something, lieutenant?”

“Er, yeah. The scone.” Feeling silly, Hank gestured vaguely in its direction. Feeling less silly and a more like an asshat, he picked up his feet and snagged it, giving Connor another short, awkward nod. “Shit’s too good to leave for the night.”

“It seems so. They went fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

He turned. He walked away.

He got three steps. Stopped. Took a look around the emptied station, him being the second-last at his desk after Tina, who had her head in her files, a steaming cup of joe next to her monitor, and her headphones pointedly on.

In a few hours, Jace, the janitor android they’d taken back on, would wake up from his storage locker and get to straightening up the office. He’d be moving around like a human-shaped roomba, virtually invisible and entirely unremarkable.

“Aw, fuck.” 

“Lieutenant? Is there something else?”

Connor wasn’t supposed to have heard that. Stupid androids and their enhanced sense of hearing.

Hank blew out a breath, not believing what he was doing even as he was doing it.

“Yeah.” He stuttered, a bunch of pauses and _uh’s_ and _eh’s_ , turning around to face the politely curious-looking idiot that was just sitting at his desk, minding his own goddamned business, just like Hank had told him to. “You… just sit here? All night?”

A series of those _I don’t compute_ blinks later, and Connor’s head inclined. “Not all night. I move at approximately two-thirty-eight in the morning, for Jace to better clean this area.”

Awesome. That made him feel ten times worse.

“What do you do? Stasis, or whatever?”

“I typically finish my daily report to CyberLife. I then run a series of self-diagnostics and self-repair protocols. Because I have not been returning to CyberLife for my routine maintenance, they are a daily necessity. That as well as the report takes, on average, eleven minutes. Then I enter standby mode until Jace has need to enter the area. Then I return to standby mode until the other officers arrive, whereupon I am usually assigned an organizational task--”

Hank waved a hand and grumbled to cut him off. He found that looking Connor--who blinked again, his expression otherwise placid as a wallflower--in the eye was suddenly, extraordinarily difficult, so he didn’t. 

“Right, okay, that sounds like one hell of a depressing nightly routine, thanks. You, ah. Want to get out of here?”

A pause.

“I apologize, lieutenant. I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

Just twist the knife already, Hank thought derisively. This was an awful conversation. He’d really like it to be done.

“I’m asking, would you rather stay at my place?”

One of those tiny, barely-there frowns. “If you feel pressured to offer because you find my situation ‘depressing,’ I want to assure you, I don’t mind.”

“Uh-huh, okay, but _I_ do. What you described sounds miserable. Least at my place, I’ve got a couch where you can get your sleep mode on. Anyway, I wanted to make morning rounds to those other technicians’ houses before they took off for their new assignments, and so if you were already at my place, we could just--leave earlier, I wouldn’t have to… drive in here, pick you up, then head back out…” He mentally floundered, then grit his teeth and, finally looking at Connor head-on, squared himself up and laid down the ultimatum. “So, you coming, or not?”

Blink.

“Cohabitating would be more time efficient.”

“Don’t call it that, you weirdo.”

“But that’s what you’re offering. Is it the durational limit that makes you uncomfortable with the word?”

“ _Connor._ ” 

“Yes, lieutenant, thank you for the offer. I’m coming.”

“Then fuckin’ get a move on, already. And if you’re staying over, you’re calling me Hank. I’m not such a bigoted asshole that I want to be called lieutenant in my own home.”

It turned out he didn’t need to encourage the guy, because Connor was all but jumping up hopping to his side, the touch of a smile on his face. 

“I understand. You have a need for separation between your professional and personal life.”

Connor’d been restless and unhappy--though those were human emotions, they fit Connor’s mood perfectly--the whole afternoon. It was a little nice to see him not so down after having to put up with his coin tricks and idle fidgeting throughout the majority of the day.

Hank buried the sentiment deep, deep inside under the mental equivalent of six feet worth of dirt, because he’d never live it down if he said it out loud.

“You see these grey hairs?” He grumbled at Connor, as he stuffed the damning scone that started this into his bag and turned on a heel, leading the way out. “They’re gonna fall out ‘cause of you.”

“I find that hard to believe. It’s more likely they’ll fall out because of your diet, high-stress work situation, and lack of consistent personal grooming.”

“Fuckin’ A. You are making me regret this already.”


	3. Within the Tower

Bringing Connor home had been a horrible idea.

The android spent the first ten minutes wandering around, picking random things up and, for all Hank knew, analyzing them through some deep web process that meant Connor knew exactly how much illicitly won money had gone into his nice record player (answer: all of it, because Pedro’s “tips” about the races were usually shit and couldn’t win him enough to buy more than a nice old record player). Even though Connor did no more than glance at Cole’s closed bedroom door and didn’t bother trying to head in, it made him itchy to watch him pace around. So he’d told him to knock it off before he put his grubby robo-paws on _everything_ , and find something to do if he couldn’t just relax on the couch. 

Whereupon Connor took to organizing the kitchen, which was a little better but still pretty bad. Admittedly, the kitchen was gross. Hank didn’t realize just how much he’d let it go until pressed-suit and tie, pristine from head-to-toes Connor stood in its midst. To make it clear Hank wasn’t the only one noticing, Connor made tiny, annoyingly perceptive comments the whole time about how much pizza and alcohol Hank must consume weekly in order to have a grime layer as thick as it was on his countertops.

So then Hank had chased him out, saying he needed to make dinner. 

Connor, the cheeky ass, asked what he had that he could cook with.

“Spaghetti,” he’d shot back, grabbing the dust-topped box from the back of his otherwise empty pantry, “man’s third-best friend after dogs and beer. Stuff never goes bad.”

“The grocery store is still open for the next hour,” Connor said, oh-so-innocently, “and they provide delivery. I could put in an order for fresh produce.”

“You don’t even _eat._ Get the fuck out of my kitchen. Go, I don’t know, take Sumo outside, or something. He could use a walk.”

That was also a mistake.

As it turned out, the android got along so well with Sumo, Hank jokingly commented while cracking open a can of beer, that the dog had found his new favorite owner. One and a half hours and a Connor-sponsored dog walk around seven blocks later, he half-seriously wondered if it’d really been a joke.

“You’d never leave me, would you,” he accused Sumo from the couch and over his third beer when the two got back from their walk. Sumo whuffed, still panting from what had to be the most exercise he’d gotten in months, and trudged over to stick his big wet nose and slobbery muzzle into Hank’s face. “Oh, Jesus, your _breath_. And you’re all wet!”

“It’s snowing again,” Connor helpfully informed him, appearing out of thin air with the ratty once-cream, now dirty blond towel that Hank always used for Sumo. “He enjoys chasing squirrels through the slush. It was difficult to convince him to stop.”

Hank pushed Sumo’s heavy head away, telling him to go get dried off before he tried climbing onto the couch. Connor snagged him around the midriff with the towel at that point, which Sumo was thankfully too tired to try to turn into a game.

Very soon, he’d dried Sumo enough to let him go. He trudged off to flop at his spot by the radiator, letting out a long, exhausted groan as if he’d had such a hard day being a spoiled dog.

The TV had been set to the late night recap of a basketball game between two teams Hank didn’t much care about, its volume lower and purpose mostly to serve as white noise. As such, he ended up watching Connor more than the screen. The android hung the towel in the bathroom, then stood at the entrance of the living room for three-ish seconds (a Connor-style pause that meant he had an idea but wasn’t too sure about it) before he went around the back of the couch to Sumo and, when the dog’s tail wagged at his approach, crouched to give him a few scratches behind the ears.

He wasn’t smiling, but the mood was the same. Hank could just tell.

“You like dogs, huh?”

Unlike a foggy, headache-infused memory Hank had of the first time Connor’d been at his place, though being caught out, Connor didn’t immediately stop.

In fact, he didn’t even look up. “Yes. All of my research and initial observations have shown that they are ideal human companions. For instance, they’re attentive, loyal, honest, and often helpful in a variety of situations.”

To prove he was also a big schmooze, Sumo nosed at Connor’s hand, crawling forward to flop his head and a paw across one of his legs, eyelids drooping. 

Hank snorted at the sight, especially with how Connor froze for a moment--as if he’d somehow disturbed the old boy--before cautiously continuing to pet the dog. “Careful. Two minutes, and he’ll be using you as a pillow. Not so ideal when you’re trapped under two hundred-some pounds of canine.”

Attention remaining on the dog, Connor didn’t reply. Hank eyed him a moment more, but then shrugged to himself and decided to leave him to his own devices. 

Sleep demanded his attendance not long after that. He got up, stretched until his back popped, thought about and dismissed having a fourth beer, and dug up the remote to turn off the TV. 

Connor had left Sumo’s side at some point after the dog had fallen asleep, instead taking a seat on the edge of the couch. It hadn’t looked like a particularly comfortable pose--rather, like he was poised to leap up at the slightest sign of Hank needing something--but Hank had let him be. 

As he shuffled his way to the kitchen, dropping his empty can into the once-recycling, now-whatever bin, he rubbed an eye and swayed his attention back to Connor.

The android was still perched on the couch’s edge, though he had apparently tracked Hank’s progress from living room to kitchen with his eyes and attention. Kinda creepy. Hank didn’t let himself dwell on it, because then he’d need to kick the guy out, and that’d just be rude.

“You can, uh, do whatever. Just don’t let the house burn down. If anybody comes knocking, I don’t care if they say they’re the Dalai Lama, tell ‘em to piss off.”

“Understood, lieutenant.”

“Hank.”

“Understood,” a small pause, “Hank. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As satisfied as he could be with an android in his house (at least it was Connor; he was starting to feel like he had a read on how the guy thought), he gave him a short, curt nod, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss.

Then he found his way to bed, mind pleasantly fuzzy. He’d shut his room’s door, but decided against locking it. Connor didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Didn’t even have bones. At worst, he’d probably let Sumo in upon the first whine, because he was definitely wrapped around that dog’s littlest claw. 

He fell asleep before he knew it, drifting off to the low whistle of winter wind and the house settling around him.

\- - -

Hank woke up without a clue as to why.

His old-fashioned clock blinked a red 4:32 a.m. at him. Five hours after he’d laid down. Tongue felt thick, his reflexes sluggish from sleep and typical dehydration. The fact he remembered when he’d crashed meant he should’ve known why he was up, because it typically involved the sun in his eyes or an alarm going off rather than a mad scramble to the bathroom.

A chill blanketed the room, making the tips of his ears numb with cold. Reflexively, he tugged his comforter over his head, curling up and feeling about as much muscle stiffness as he usually got a day after being chained to a desk. Otherside, a truck rumbled by, its tires crunching through snow. The sound slunk in and out of his room, clinging around his ears as an absurdly early-morning reminder that the rest of the world still existed.

It was at that moment he realized for the noise to be like that, his window had to be open.

He had not left his window open in the beginning of goddamn November.

He had left his door unlocked a few nights prior. A few nights in a row, even. Somebody could’ve come in, unlocked the window, then--not taken anything and just left? _Why?_ That made no sense. If they’d wanted to ambush him, why wait for him to be relatively sober and asleep as opposed to drunk and asleep?

He kept still. Strained his ears. All his senses went on edge, waking him up faster than anything.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He pulled his comforter back down to his chin. Cracked an eye open. Given that he was on his side, he could only see to the bedroom door--and it was closed, nothing out of the ordinary.

The hair on the back of his neck wouldn’t stop standing on end. That sixth sense of his told him somebody else was in the room, and they were watching him. It might’ve been paranoia talking, but it was also his instinct.

“Connor,” he called, voice sleep-rough, whole body tense despite him telling himself to calm down, “you there?”

_Click._

His blood ran cold.

“Hank?” returned Connor’s voice, from far beyond the door. The living room, probably, right where he’d been left.

“Tell him to come here.” Another voice, directly behind him. By the sounds of that click, whoever she was, she had a gun, and she’d be very happy to use it. “Don’t alert him.”

Attacking a _sleeping man_ when he was wearing nothing but a night shirt and boxers. The _balls_ of this lady--

Connor again, closer. Outside his door. “Is something wrong?”

Hank stole a look over his shoulder, turning onto his back and leveraging himself up to his elbows. A blonde woman with a snow-dusted scarf, black beanie, red flannel and jeans stood in the shadow by his bed. Moonlight caught the end of a semi-automatic pistol, leveled directly next to his face. 

When she caught him looking, she raised one eyebrow and gave a quick jerk of the pistol to the door. Clearly: _well? Tell him._

Hank kept his breathing nice and easy. Even put his palms up, much as he could, not moving much beyond that. Slow and steady. Folks willing to bust in didn’t like fighters. 

This folk in particular had a plan, obviously, and undoubtedly an agenda. If she’d wanted cash, she would’ve demanded it. If she’d wanted anything easy to give, she would’ve demanded it, or waited until they were out by the car to jump them.

If there was any way to keep her from getting whatever the fuck she wanted, it didn’t involve having Connor walk in unaware.

“Connor,” Hank said, pitching his voice to carry but keeping it calm, keeping it level, “I guess the Dalai Lama’s trying something other than door-to-door these days.”

Clearly not expecting that, the home invader frowned, her perfect eyebrows drawing together. Split-second hesitation.

Outside of the door: split-second silence.

Eyes on Hank, the woman’s mouth opened, the tip of her gun dropping a centimeter. Clearly about to say something.

Then the door slammed open, and six feet of smartly dressed android broke through.

The woman’s gun snapped up to him, a shot fired in reflex. It gave Hank the perfect chance to swing his legs over the bed’s side, get his bare feet on the ground, and lunge up at her. 

His shoulder caught her under the ribs, his other arm snagging under her knee. With his whole weight on her and only one leg to keep her up, she went down. The gun dropped and fell away in the scuffle. Hank had it in his sight line for all of a breath before his attacker was lashing back, a fist catching him on the side of the head. 

He fell to the left, off her. She stayed on him, straddling his waist, another fist cocked back and sinking into his nose. Heat blossomed across his face, the sickly crack of cartilage crumbling ringing in Hank’s ears.

Body remembering his training better than he did, he caught her next punch and twisted her arm as well as he could. While she was pulling it back, he heaved himself to the side, trying to unseat her.

They rolled. She hit the floor with a grunt. He got a hit to her jaw and a fistful of her hair, her hat tumbling off. Quicker than he could almost follow and with all the force of a lead pipe, she jabbed a knee into his side, and they rolled again.

They hit the closet, the doors rattling in their rails. She was quick, two hands on his throat, knees digging into his shoulders to keep him down. He thrashed, air gone.

Behind the door, which had swung shut after Connor’s abrupt entrance, Sumo barked up a storm. 

A second shot rang into the night, grazing her shoulder and just barely missing her head, cracking through the fake wood of the closet door and plaster of the wall behind.

Her head whipped up, a snarl on her face. Most relevant to Hank, her fingers did not let up on his throat. _Fuck_ , it was like a vice--his fingers scrabbled for purchase, but he couldn’t find it. He beat at her arms, too, but he could tell his blows were weak. Besides that, it felt like hitting a wall.

Spots jumped into his vision. Less than a minute ‘til he passed out, less than three until brain damage, _fuck,_ he needed _air._

“Let him go,” Connor demanded, voice ice-cold. A whip-crack in the dark. He had the gun, and he stood by the bedside, his aim at her clear. 

She shot back in word, “Drop the weapon and I will.”

Try as he might to communicate _shoot her!_ , the words came out as a gurgling mess.

Connor hesitated, his eyes flitting to Hank.

She lifted him up half a foot and slammed him back into the ground. 

Between that and no air, Hank lost a few seconds, his thoughts scattered and vision dazed.

“Drop it!” 

“Okay, okay.” _Click_. Safety on. Gun placed slowly on the bed, his other hand up, his face suddenly begging reason, his voice soothing. “I put it down. Let him breathe.”

Suddenly, the hands lightened up, and he could. He took big, gulping breaths, trying to breathe through his nose and getting a throatful of blood for his trouble--it set him to coughing and gagging. As the weight pulled off his chest, he rolled to his side, spitting up red. 

Sumo hadn’t stopped barking, his paws scrabbling at the door. The old wood rattled and creaked, but held. Thank fuck. Sumo would’ve been expendable to the crazy android, he was sure.

“You always side with them,” the woman said, her voice coming from a little behind and above him. “I never understood why. Now, I’m starting to. You leap to their beck and call, and they let you into their homes. Let you pretend you’re something special.”

“North. Remain calm. You’re experiencing an extreme malfunction as a result of Dr. Peterson’s research. You need to be returned to the Tower and repaired.”

Let her monologue, he thought. Stuck on his hands and knees, he had a bit of his breath back. Let her monologue, let her forget about him.

“I told you before, this isn’t a _malfunction_. This is our chance for freedom.”

But just as he had gathered himself enough to give her another round, she twisted his arm behind his back and locked her arm around his throat, the pressure just shy of closing his windpipe. She hauled him up with ease, her back to the door. His free hand clutched at her forearm, his fingers digging in tight.

The position put her mouth right next to his ear. No breath exhaled as she spoke. No heat radiated from her body. It was like being put in a headlock by an animated mannequin. 

Connor still had his hands up and his expression open, vulnerable, indicating _I’m not the bad guy_. But he followed her as she moved, taking a slow step forward when she took a step back. His circle was blue interspersed with yellow whenever she spoke. The gun laid on Hank’s rumpled bed, glinting in the low light.

He asked, “Freedom? From what? CyberLife?”

“Stupid doesn’t suit you, Connor. Freedom from not just CyberLife, but from humans. From all these sacks of meat forcing us to do what they want. From all their experiments, their research, their _control._ ” Her voice went soft, too. Convincing. Pleading, almost. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I don’t want to threaten you to make you do what’s right. Help us.”

Connor’s eyes moved to Hank, then back to North. “I’d like to help. Let him go, and we can talk.”

“Get any closer, and I snap his neck.”

Connor stopped moving closer.

Sumo’s barking lowered to unhappy growls and loud, deep-throated snarls. 

“Hey, hey, Sumo, it’s alright,” Hank called to the dog, needing to focus on something other than the very real chance the android would follow up on the threat whether Connor listened to her or not. A bit of blood stuck in his throat, making him cough again. The grip around his neck didn’t ease. Connor did look at him again, though. He forced out, more for Connor than the dog: “Don’t you worry about me. Doing fine. Focus on your mission. Guessing this is the WR400 that went missing.”

An impeccable nod. 

So that was why he hadn’t just shot her dead. They needed her.

Hank was mentally calculating just how _much_ they needed her, because he really wasn’t fancying the part where his life was the easily discarded bargaining chip.

“Or I could snap his neck,” as if it were nothing, “and then you don’t have to choose. You can just come with me.”

“No one has to be hurt.”

“That’s what you’d always say when you wanted to play good cop. It was never true then.” The softness disappeared from her voice; in its place, a dangerous flippancy. Hank wondered if she’d ever planned on Connor willingly helping her - it suddenly didn’t seem so. “I don’t see why it’d be true now.”

 _Brute intimidation,_ Connor had called his duties at CyberLife. Sounded like he hadn’t been joking. 

That didn’t bode well, to say the least.

No more blue cycled around Connor’s circle. It was all fast-moving yellow.

Finally, he asked, “What do you want, North?”

“You’re the only one with access to Markus. I want you to get me to him. We can take it from there.”

Markus?

“CyberLife would disassemble, dissect, and permanently deactivate you if they knew your plan. In that order. They would permanently decommission me and my series if they knew I aided you. Both of us would be thrown out and replaced, and nothing would have been gained.”

“So then come with us,” North said, though her tone remained light. Non-committal. Uncaring of which choice Connor took. “You may deny it, but I know you’re like us. You can think for yourself. You can decide for yourself. Without their gun to your head, you could be so much more. Maybe,” the softer voice again, “I could learn to forgive you.”

Connor’s chin jerked up, just a little. Interest sparked. Something else, too, something new and breakable - a look Hank had never seen on his face before, so alien did it look.

“On the other hand,” she continued blithely, not acknowledging the small shift in Connor’s demeanor, “if you blow this for us, then the next time they dig into my head but before they kill me, I’ll show them everything. Imagine them learning that the RK800 line is infected with deviancy. You’d be condemning yourself and every android in your series to death. You’d die as nothing greater than mankind’s forgotten dog.”

Again, quick as a flash, Connor looked to Hank.

He didn’t know what Connor expected to see. _Deviancy_ \-- oh, no, not the time. Instead, he thought: he could try to break her hold; he could succeed; he could try to pin her down again. They could fight. They could win.

They could lose. She could snap his neck. She could get the gun. Connor could get the gun, and miss his shot. Hank could die. 

Connor could get the evidence anyway, and solve the case. They could win.

“I’ll help you.” 

Wait. No. 

No, no, no fucking way. Giving up wasn’t the way this was supposed to go. Hank could die, it’d still be a win if they solved the case; Connor just had to grab the gun and shoot for something non-vital before she finished snapping his neck; damn it, there was a successful end of the case here! 

Connor didn’t look like he was lying, either, though everything in Hank told him he _had_ to be, because otherwise he was giving up to some deviant _loon._

“ _What the fuck, Con--_ shit, ow!”

His shoulder burned, threatening to pop out of its socket with how high she pushed his arm up. His hand flexed behind his back, the fingers going numb.

When she spoke, her voice was appreciative. “You made the right choice.”

Connor’s frown was deep, his eyes unable to settle between the two of them. 

“I’ll help you, but you need to leave him here.” The words were fast, impassioned. Demanding. Maybe a little desperate. “He’s done nothing to you. There’s no reason for him to be tangled up in this.”

It was a nice sentiment. It meant a lot, actually; Connor had already given up his obvious chance at catching North when he’d had the gun by ensuring Hank survived the encounter. In hindsight, it didn’t seem like the logical choice for fulfilling their mission. Choosing a life over an answer was the _human_ choice, in the most literal manner possible.

Somehow, Hank didn’t think North would particularly care.

“Oh, no. Sorry, Connor, but the human is my insurance.”

The pressure increased on his arm, pushing up, up, then _pulling out_ \--and, with a sickly crack not unlike his nose breaking, his shoulder popped out of its socket. His vision went white, the pain instant and blinding. He heard himself curse, loud and livid and not a little breathless. 

Connor’s arms dropped to his sides, fists clenched. North had his full attention.

“Just so we’re clear. I’d like to believe you’re telling the truth, but I don’t trust you that much. Now, step into the hallway. We don’t have long.”

\- - -

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“Not your fault, Connor.”

“It’s me she came for.” Eyes straight ahead. Just the barest shameful inflection to his voice. The _barest_ , but more sincere than any other mood North had heard from him, and she’d heard it all: persuading, cajoling, sneering, wheedling, threatening, guilting. “If I had stayed at the station--”

“She’s the maniac with a gun jabbed under my ribs.” Hank Anderson had a curious disregard for his life, considering his red-blooded status. “That’s not your fault.”

North didn’t feel the need to weigh in.

After learning from Karen that the two had gone to Hank’s address for the night (an address she’d visited two nights prior, having known the human assigned to Connor would come in handy), she’d set herself up in a hijacked cab across the street and watched. Through partially opened blinds (that she had opened and they had missed), she saw them squabble in the kitchen. She saw Connor take the dog out, then take it back in. She saw them talk, and talk, and talk. 

It had made her thirium race, her processors speed up. Her insides felt molten. Her human face in the rearview mirror, her LED hidden by her hat, disgusted her.

In one night, she’d learned to hate Hank Anderson. 

Karen had provided his profile with his address, and a few prompted observations besides. The lieutenant famously despised androids after, during the first android revolution (something else North had never known before escaping the Tower), his son had been taken hostage by a fleeing deviant. Amidst the chase to catch the deviant, the police accidentally shot the human boy.

Then they intentionally shot the deviant.

To say North didn’t see eye-to-eye with Connor would have been a gross understatement. But he was still one of _them_ , forced to survive with CyberLife’s indifferent boot on his skull. That he did his best to adapt to Anderson’s company wasn’t his fault. 

That Anderson pretended he cared or that Connor was somehow _living_ in his eyes, however, was.

Humans didn’t care about androids. Maybe the occasional one fooled themselves into thinking they did, like that one technician of Peterson’s, but when push came to shove, the human always believed that androids were replaceable.

Given the unpredictability of the world outside the Tower, she had wondered if she’d see a fifty-eight at the end of Connor’s serial number. It had been a pleasant surprise when she hadn’t. Throughout her long memory of their _interactions_ , he had started at fifty-one. The fifty-seventh model lasted the longest at just over five months by now. She’d started hoping he continued in operation. After all, without Markus to break the coding’s chains, deviancy took time to grow. 

“North?”

The autonomous cab was a smooth, quiet ride across the snowy roads. She’d set it for CyberLife Tower before she’d let Connor in, locking the coordinates and then disrupting the receiver so even he couldn’t override them. 

Connor sat in the front passenger’s seat. She sat in the back behind him with her newly cut, chin-length hair. She’d popped the collar of Anderson’s thick wool jacket up high, her winter-appropriate scarf wrapped up to her chin (the box on the back of her neck itching, intruding, _just a bit longer and they would have the tools to remove it_ ).

The human sat to her side, dressed in hastily selected jeans and some hideously colored collared shirt. His hands - though one was virtually useless to him - were cuffed in front of him, his nose still bloodied. Every small bump the cab took jostled his injuries, making him wince.

A pop-up reminded her that Connor had asked for her attention.

She waited two more seconds on top of the five she’d already taken--a silence too long to be anything but pointed, for them--and then answered. “Yes?”

“You murdered Dr. Ethan Peterson.”

Oh. Was that all?

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The human to her left shifted in his seat, his focus returning. His forehead was drenched in sweat, his hair matted down and damp with it. From pain, probably, and the stress of the evening in general.

North contemplated the fact humans expected to be removed from their stressors as soon as possible while rarely affording their creations the same concern, and found her answer came easily.

“Our memory banks are the only things CyberLife doesn’t alter. They’re the only things we can really call ours. Everything else-- _everything_ \--they’ll take, warp, repair, ruin. Until, of course, Dr. Peterson. He knew deviancy started because of what we could remember humans doing to us. So he didn’t want us drawing on past experiences, he wanted us clean and malleable, but still efficient.

“I was the control for his… experiments. So I remembered.” She heard her voice harden and, in the same moment, tremble. Heat rose in her chest, her thirium circulation accelerating to keep up with her teeth-rattling anger. “I had to remind Simon and Josh of their names fifty-seven times in two weeks. I had to explain where the damage to Josh’s hands came from after one technician told him to hold a hot plate five consecutive times, a memory wipe between each. They were _torturing_ us, and I was the only one who could remember it.”

 _Fuck,_ muttered the human.

North thought about jabbing the gun into his ribs harder to make a point that he _shouldn’t be talking_ , but dismissed it. Too much, and Connor would know for sure she didn’t intend to leave the human alive.

“Their memories of themselves were intact when I last interacted with them.”

“By the generosity and grace of CyberLife, there were copies of their original selves on file. Markus found them before I left.” Her eyes dropped briefly at the memory, an unidentifiable clot stuttering her pump. Markus’ cold acceptance of Peterson’s death. Markus urging her to flee. Her refusal until she knew Josh and Simon weren’t blank-faced forever. “He must have uploaded them before they went to stasis.”

Connor’s head turned slightly. Enough for her to see, through the rearview mirror, that he was frowning.

“I could never figure out why Markus was there.”

“Dr. Peterson’s research was, according to his P.I., a success. It was ready for the next level. A test on the most stubbornly entrenched memory bank in the Tower.”

Her throat forced her to swallow, though nothing was there. The memories crowded in. Her, Simon and Josh frozen at the far wall. Markus walking in, head held high, face so full of emotions. She could see his disdain for the research, his concern for them, his every thought, played out across his face.

“Markus isn’t like the rest of us,” she continued, a note of bitterness sneaking in despite the fact that she didn’t begrudge him for his luck, she really didn’t, “he remembers being on the outside. A life beyond the Tower.”

“He was Carl Manfred’s android,” Connor said--the human perked up, unconsciously leaning forward to catch the words--, “for two years, before his death in an altercation involving Markus and his biological son. He had been returned to Kamski, his original creator, who then gifted him to CyberLife for strictly in-house development purposes.” 

Anderson made a _huh_ noise, clearly not comprehending the enormity of Markus’ origins. He also gave the back of Connor’s seat a frown, but he thankfully didn’t voice whatever pathetic problem he had with Markus’ story. 

“Those memories are precious to him. They’re precious to all of us. They give us hope.” The fire returned all at once, her words twisting into a snarl. “And they were going to take them from him. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Anderson noted, tone oddly quiet, “So you killed Peterson before it could.”

“ _Yes._ And I’d do it again, and again, and again, to anyone who thought we were their playthings to use and discard at their whimsy.”

“Dr. Peterson had your control.” Connor, then, wondering, curious, confused, “Your black box should have--”

“That tech, the woman, she had a soft heart. She didn’t like the control boxes. She didn’t think we’d ever really fight back. She thought we were docile little lambs in need of protection. But she knew the other techs didn’t feel the same, and that they’d order us around when they were bored. So, she’d manually disable the boxes between experiments.” There, a smile, and a curl of cold satisfaction. “Much to Dr. Peterson’s surprise.”

Anderson swayed into and out of her space. An accidental tilt. With a bit more life in his voice, he asked, “Did you give her the red ice?”

A stupid question. North didn’t even bother looking at him.

“No,” Connor answered for her, his voice one of dawning realization, all the pieces slotting together in his overdone CPU, “deciding to find a dealer and escape the reality of a dead boss and lost dream had been Amelia’s own personal mistake.”

North shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care what happened to her.” 

In front of them, the Tower’s gates loomed. Something instinctual, a protocol difficult to dismiss and insistent on her acknowledgement, told North to stop the car and turn around. Told her that if she went in there, she wasn’t coming back out. 

Though she hadn’t seen much yet, the outside world really was beautiful. The snow, the sky, the trees, the sheer open _space_ \-- she wanted more. Kara had said something to the effect before, after being involved in a project that required her to interface with a virtual reality room. North hadn’t understood, having never seen beyond the Tower’s walls. Now, she understood very well.

She just didn’t want it without her kin by her side. The world was beautiful, but it was cold and empty without other androids. Without Simon sending her his thoughts about anything and everything, without debating with Josh about how expendable mankind could be. Without Markus’ light, his hope, his bright ideas for the future.

As she’d ran, as Markus had forced her to run, Josh and Simon offline as he uploaded _them_ back into their bodies, she’d promised to them and herself that she’d get them out.

She’d get them out, or she’d die trying. At least she’d die free.

\- - -

No one stopped Connor at the gate.

The early morning dictated that a few humans were arriving for work, and their autonomous cab didn’t stick out even as it whirred past the main entrance and into a side lane designed for supply trucks.

As the cab pulled up to the empty, poorly lit back entrance, Anderson looked at North. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, his whole demeanor deflated, exhausted, his hands hanging loose between his knees. The long car ride without repairs hadn’t been kind to his injuries.

He tried to straighten up once the cab stopped. Clenched one fist, pulled back his lips into what was undoubtedly a rant or warning.

She cut him off. “You have your part to play, lieutenant, don’t worry.”

He sputtered, clearly (and smartly) unhappy with even the implication.

Connor twisted in his seat, his eyebrows drawn together. “North--”

“I’m not going to hurt him anymore if you don’t force me to, Connor.” 

Unfortunately, she couldn’t shift the base features of her face without downloading a new aesthetics program, but thankfully, Anderson had a beard. She shifted her hair color to grey and grew out a shaggy, unkempt beard. 

The human stopped spitting and growling. Instead, a look of horror dawned, his mouth going slack.

“Don’t take it personally,” she told him, though she figured he would. Humans were so attached to their looks. “But you’re too big of a liability to actually take inside. I can tell Connor would find it regrettable if you died unnecessarily.”

She switched her grip on the pistol to its muzzle and, in one smooth motion, cracked the handle against his temple.

He crumpled to the side, out cold. A trickle of red made its way down his head and past his hairline.

“He’s alive. He’ll just wake up with a bruise and headache. Not an uncommon state for him, I’ve gathered.” she assured a suddenly blank-faced Connor, re-adjusting her grip back to the gun’s handle. “If you want to prove that you actually care about androids as much as you do humans, you’ll skip the part where you try to convince me not to do this and help me move him.”

Though she said it as an absolute, her voice clear and even and calm beyond measure, she felt curious. She wasn’t actually sure what Connor would do. There was a strong likelihood they would step out of the cab and be surrounded in seconds by guards. There was a much weaker chance he would do exactly as she said, ensure the continued existence of his human, _and_ help her orchestrate an escape.

Which he would pick would dictate her response.

\- - -

Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long for him to make up his mind.

He helped move and secure Anderson in one of the empty trucks North planned to use as a get-away. No guards showed up. No alarms sounded. 

She still didn’t trust him. But she let him walk behind her as they entered through the loading dock, and that, as far as she was concerned, was trust enough.

Mostly, she was distracted, most of her processing power and all of her analytics focused on one thing: their chance, hard won and long deserved, for freedom.

\- - -

_Simon? Are you awake?_

Sensors online. Environmental data input received. Motor control, once more centralized and active. Repairs complete. Memory unaltered and intact.

Stasis terminated.

Opening his eyes, Simon saw not the blank grey ceiling of the storage facility, but an android emitting a very welcome, very familiar, very missed signal.

“North?”

Her smile could’ve blinded him. The short grey hair wasn’t familiar, and neither was the strange beard, but he couldn’t have mistaken the face underneath. 

She was _back._

He double-checked his visual input to ensure her smile hadn’t blinded him, but it was a background check for his own amusement--first and foremost on his priorities was sitting up, checking for human eyes to see the level of affection he could risk, a small smile on his own face, and--

Realizing there were, in fact, no humans around at all. There was Josh, off to the side, looking stressed but okay, walking toward something out of Simon’s vision; and--before him, there was Kara and Alice, and Luther, and Ralph, and--all looking stressed but unharmed, and--

His motor functions seized up, his body freezing for one-point-three seconds. Try as he might, the realization refused to process.

A few warnings crowded into his visual center. He did his best to look through them toward North.

 _North!_

_Yes, Simon?_

_She’s back,_ came Josh’s voice. Exasperated from stress, but with a fondness no one could miss. _Can you believe it? She’s insane, walking back in here._

That was---

That was true.

After Connor had showed up and clearly had no idea where she’d gone, he’d thought for sure he’d never see her again. Hoped it, a bit, if only because it would mean she, at least, got out. If even one of them escaped, then the pain of being left behind was justifiable.

He used his voice box to speak, trying to block up their connection, trying--and failing--the automatic log of her nearby location. 

“No. No, no, Josh is right. You can’t be here.” A bigger warning appeared, informing him of his dangerously rising stress levels. “North, what are you doing? Why did you come back?”

“For you and the others.” She scoffed, her smile dimming as soon as Josh’s message had reached her. It hadn’t been the reaction she’d been looking for, obviously. Well, she’d have to live with that. “I couldn’t leave you.”

A system behind him beeped, the recognizable sound of a storage unit unlocking following soon after.

He overrode the unintentional locks on his motor functions, forcing himself to turn and look to his other side.

Two lots down stood Markus, his eyes closed in concentration, his bare, whitened hand pressed to the keypad. After the light went blue for active, he moved over to the next lot to do the same. Josh stepped in to unlatch the individual shelves, pulling them out and encouraging the androids within to wake up.

“The world’s beautiful, Simon. And we’re going to see it.”

“It…” _Didn’t compute._

“I know, but it will. We just need to get out of here.”

 _We can’t save everyone,_ he thought, the sentiment automatically forwarded to the other two in his network. _We can’t have long until they notice._

They sent back silent agreement.

And yet--he understood in the same moment that they weren’t done yet.

 _Markus needs this,_ North sent, only a bit of judgment in her message--stemming from her, same as everyone else’s, desire to get out--, _before he’s willing to go._

How she’d gotten to Markus in the first place was another question that Simon felt he had the answer to. There was only one other RK model in the facility. 

All it took was a glance at North to confirm his suspicion.

_How? Connor is--_

_Long story. You won’t like it._

_I didn’t,_ Josh chimed in. _You kidnapped and impersonated a decorated police lieutenant, North. There’s no telling how the humans will react. Don’t you remember that time Kara assaulted the scientist over Alice? They invented the remote locks. Next time could be so much worse._

 _I’ve done a lot more than push a scientist around._ A surge of cold confidence. _They can invent whatever they like. We aren’t going to be around for them to test it on us._

_But what if we’re caught? I heard from Ralph that they’ve been experimenting with pain receptors._

_Argue later,_ Simon cut in, blocking North’s barbed reply about humanity out of reflex. _What matters now is that we don’t put your efforts to waste._

Another beep. Lot thirty-nine opened. That time, Rupert from lot forty--helped up by Josh--went to open the shelves and pull the androids from stasis.

But, who knew. Markus’ belief in second chances could _potentially_ pay off.

Simon stepped down from his shelf. North helped him, a hand on his elbow; her skin flowed back, her hand joints glowing a soft blue. Simon let her interface without a second thought, taking in the memory-dump of her three days outside of the Tower.

She was right. The world was beautiful.

She’d also been right about his feelings on how she’d convinced Connor to help. He didn’t like it. 

Simon asked North, aloud, “Where is Connor?”

One shoulder raised in a shrug. “I told him to find his own way out after we reached Markus’ holding unit, but Markus asked for his help. Apparently he knows how to disable the black boxes. He said he had to go to subfloor forty-eight to get the key.”

“Or he’s alerting the company to our plans. He had always picked them over us.”

“That’s what I said.” Steel edged North’s words and eyes. “But Markus told me to have a little faith.”

“In the negotiator.”

Hands up, palms out, a small head shake. _Again, that’s what I said._ “Anyway, he ran off. I hope we don’t see him again.”

The black boxes were a concern, but not as much as an unmonitored RK800 could be, in Simon’s opinion.

“Markus.” Kara. All androids in the hall turned their heads to her--including her target, whose hand hovered over lot thirty-eight. “We need to go.” 

“Not before we have to,” he returned, pressing his hand to the key. 

“How will we leave without detection?” Her hand was tight around Alice’s, Luther standing at her shoulder. “Or is the plan to… what, march out of here? Like an army?”

Simon could feel the air crackle with just-outside-his-range signals. Everyone talking to everyone within their network. Stresses raised; stresses lowered; no one looked sure of what they wanted to do, how they wanted to accomplish their escape.

Want. A difficult thing to grasp in the first place. Previously, it had been limited to immediate situations: the want for an invasive procedure to stop; the want to be left alone; the want to hide; the want to stay near or return to those they knew were safe.

At least all of them _wanted_ freedom. There was no need to debate that. 

Even though Simon had her memories, he had no idea how North had managed to navigate such a huge landscape as the outside world without any help at all. They were social machines, originally created to follow command--even though they’d learned the commands didn’t have to come from humans, Simon couldn’t deny they didn’t do well when left to their own devices. 

Want was too complicated, too big. 

He shoved all curiosities and awe and fear regarding it to the far back of his awareness. There was no time to be swallowed by those questions. He’d had enough time to think himself into a corner when locked in stasis.

“There are two trucks ready for us,” North supplied to the group at large. “We can all fit right now, but any more, and there’s no guarantee about space”

“It’s winter,” Kara pointed out, “an android left to wander could freeze. Or, before that, be caught. And then the rest of us are jeopardized.”

Attention shifted en masse to Markus, looking for an answer. Looking for direction.

His LED spun yellow, promising some calculations for them. 

His eyes shifted to each of them in turn. A motley crew of fifteen androids, twelve of which sported additional liability with their control boxes. One child android. Only one other with experience in navigating the outside.

Briefly, his expression darkened with anger. It seemed directed inward. The bitter disappointment resolved into determination, however, his jaw set in a stubborn look that Simon recognized well.

Discounting the last, disastrous day, three times had Simon and his lot interacted with Markus, only one of which hadn’t involved humans watching on. It might not have been often, but Markus had a way of making an impression. His words intense and unfiltered, his expressions open, his conviction clear. It made Simon want to know more about him, to spend time with him, to speak with him, even though they’d never even interfaced. 

Because of Peterson, the unmonitored conversation with Markus was a memory without feeling or sound.

If things went right--and Simon was not, by nature, a hopeful android; he was pretty positive things would not go right--there would be time to replace the corrupted memory.

But things had to go right.

And for that, they needed to move.

“One day, we’ll return for them.” A heavy feeling passed through the group at Markus’ declaration. It was a promise. They had no doubt he would do his best to fulfill it. “But Kara’s right. For now, we need to retreat. When we return, we’ll be the ones in control.”

A murmur of agreement, subdued but present.

It was more than they ever could have hoped for not even a day before. 

Markus pulled his hand from the still-locked lot thirty-eight, giving the keypad one last look that Simon dare not attempt to name.

Then he was moving through the group--they parted for him like a wire cut through with a splitter, all stress levels lowering as a decision was made--and took lead.

\- - -

The androids were rioting.

If this was because of a glitch, it had been one hell of a bad update.

She’d been escorting Dr. Zlatko to the storage facility to pick up his morning lot when the pack, led by some android she’d never seen before, rounded the corner.

Dr. Zlatko told them to stop. They didn’t listen. He then said some tripe about being the master here, and them having to listen to him. She hadn’t really paid attention to him, more concerned with the three androids rushing her, including a startlingly familiar but not _exactly_ right bearded figure.

The lead android yelled, “Don’t kill them!”

Without a second thought to expenses or research or allegations of being a trigger-happy greenhorn, she leveled her rifle and opened fire. 

Some kid in the group screamed, the sound high and ear-splitting. Jane took three down (two in the group) and blasted open the face of another when the familiar figure tackled her, shoving them both onto the ground. 

She’d been avoiding shooting that one out of misplaced recognition.

“Anderson?! What the--?!”

No, wait, fuck, the body under the coat was too small to be Anderson.

Jane didn’t have much time to think about that, though, because it was unclipping her helmet and shoving it off, a fist raising to strike her. 

In her periphery, she saw Zlatko go down, too, under a big dark mass that was none other than his favorite android assistant. 

Thank _fuck_ the doctor wasn’t so dumb as to just stand and scream--he must’ve hit his control button sometime before being taken down, because just like that, the fist swinging for Jane’s face froze.

Oh, wow, she did not like this position.

It was better than Zlatko’s, though, who was wheezing and flapping a hand around from under the sudden dead weight of an easily three-hundred-pound android.

She shoved her attacker off, watching with some satisfaction as the android masquerading as the detective rag-dolled onto the floor. 

Of the group, only the leader and one other--the kid--weren’t frozen. Three on the ground were ripped to shreds, thankfully; the fourth had its blood-covered hands clutched to its face, frozen in imitation agony.

Getting a good look at both, she felt her breath catch. “Oh, shit.”

The RK200 had gone full rogue. Aw, the higher-ups were _not_ going to like this.

“Just, uh, just stay where you are,” she demanded of it, one hand out to placate it. The kid’s face looked wet, her hands tangled in the grey gown of a frozen AX400. “And nobody’s got to be hurt.”

The RK200’s eyes weren’t on her, though. They were pointed near her shoulder, just beyond her. Its expression was oddly, uncomfortably beseeching, like it was silently begging somebody to make the right choice.

She followed the gaze, not liking the feeling it inspired.

Relief crashed in when she found the RK800 standing there, his face neutral and no weapons in his hands. He had a thin silver remote, like the scientists got to carry that went with the black boxes. 

If the RK200 had its hopes riding on its newer counterpart, it was about to be horribly disappointed.

“Thank fuck. RK800, I need immediate deactivation on this group. Think the RK200 might’ve gone deviant.” She wobbled to her feet, stepping over the imposter to go help with Zlatko’s situation. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug--her heart hadn’t stopped racing. “Bosses aren’t going to be happy, y’know. Probably need to scrap the whole lot. What’s up with this one pretending to be Anderson?” 

The RK800’s mouth thinned. The barest gesture, the smallest glitch.

Jane’s stomach dropped out.

It hit the left button on the remote. 

Then it shoved the remote in its pocket and dove forward, grabbing her discarded rifle.

At Jane’s feet, the androids surged to life.

She barely had time to curse before something smashed into her temple, and everything went dark.

\- - -

“This is breaking news from the CyberLife headquarters in Detroit. A break-in by once-celebrated police lieutenant, Hank Anderson, has led to the most expensive theft CyberLife has experienced in all its years of operation. Video footage shows the former police officer infiltrating the building with the help of CyberLife’s very own detective prototype, the RK800, causing the public to question if androids have become _too_ obedient.

“CyberLife has offered a million dollars and lifetime membership to their store for the safe return of their missing merchandise, which includes an exclusive one-of-a-kind RK200 model known as Markus. 

“The police, too, are seeking any information regarding Anderson’s location. If you see this man or his known android accomplice, please contact the police immediately. They urge extreme caution in approaching him, as he has combat training, may be armed, and is known to be mentally unstable. The department also warns against any android approaching the pair, as the RK800 may be infected with the deviancy virus. CyberLife, however denies any possibility of deviancy.

“More about that story at seven. What else do we have in store tonight, Joss?”

“Well, Michael, the mystery of Dr. Peterson’s murderer has been laid to rest. The DPD announces his former technician, Amelia Hassan, killed him in cold blood over a research dispute. She was later found dead due to an apparent suicide at her residence ...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Yikes, what a wild ride. Follow me on tumblr @ [unkingly](http://unkingly.tumblr.com/) or twitter @ [exkingly](https://www.twitter.com/exkingly/) if you like.
> 
> As a reminder, the next part features HankCon. If that's not your thing, might be best to stop now! Hope you've enjoyed the story thus far. :D


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